Imposter Syndrome
October 15, 2023
“Mike, I hear you’re a writer?” a colleague recently asked me.
It’s a question that pops up occasionally in my professional settings. Someone heard about my foray into comedy, or learned I self-published a novel and other shorter works of fiction, or stumbled upon one of my short films on YouTube. Once I figure out the context to their question, I have a few polite, canned responses at the ready. I inquire, smile and nod, and then proceed to share the bare minimum about my pursuits before trying to change the subject. I used to chalk this particular introversion to modesty or shyness (or embarrassment, depending on who’s asking), but lately the reason is much simpler. Because there’s not much I can point to that I’m “writing” these days. Comedy writing has essentially dried up for me, the last short film I directed (“Stage Five”) was seven years ago, and the latest piece of fiction I put out (“Cake Batter”) was during peak COVID lockdowns when there wasn’t much else to do. Apart from the blog post directly below this one, things have been quiet.
Not for lack of trying. I’ve started (and then abandoned) a variety of projects: two short films, a collection of short stories, a new novel, a few feature spec screenplays, and even an episodic podcast series. Probably others I’ve long since forgotten. Maybe “abandon” is too strong. More like…slowly let die? I won’t bore you with the details, except to generically say that “life gets in the way”. But after three years, has life “gotten in the way” of my writing, or has my attempt at writing “gotten in the way” of my life? At what point does one lose the right to call themselves a “writer”? Is there a minimum level of output required? When do the credentials expire?
I ask myself those questions a lot. The constant tug-and-pull between opposing forces. I couldn’t tell you what I had for dinner yesterday, but I can recall with precision what I was wearing the night I finished the first draft of Miss Mezzanine, the layout of the packed Los Angeles movie theater that showed Gala, or the sound of laughter from the Kennedy Center audience laughing at one of my jokes. Yet as those memories drift further and further into my past, I realize I’m not holding up my end of the bargain. And I wonder at what point these memories should be framed not as a venture I’m still actively pursuing, but just cool anecdotes of an old vocation I once enjoyed.
I’ve been fortunate enough in my life to rely solely on passion for the craft to motivate me. Beyond a very real (but very brief) time when my wife and I debated moving to New York City to give this writing thing a try full-time, writing has been a comfortable “side gig” (or “recreational hobby”, when the 1099s would dry up). Not that the very small royalty checks from Audible haven’t been fun to get in the mail, but I never had illusions that they were paying the bills. In fact, net-net, I’m sure I’m way in the red when it comes to my endeavors (the production costs of Gala, a 10-minute short film, still give me heartburn every time I think about it). I’ve been blessed to (mostly) have the resources to bring some of these projects to life, but even when I didn’t, at least there was always the desire to keep me pushing forward…Right?
Which brings me to this post. I miss putting pen to paper. I miss hearing an actor’s interpretation of my words, either on camera or in the audio booth. I miss starting a project but not finishing it. I miss having the @mikesmithwriter Twitter handle with nothing to show for it. I miss those feelings I used to savor. So here is the promise I’m making to myself (and you, I guess, if you’ve stuck around this far). I’m done doing that. I’m done thinking about writing but then taking the easy way out by finding any excuse not to avoid starting. I’m through telling myself I’m too busy to write but then subsequently scrolling through Twitter or Instagram for an hour instead. I’m through allowing the daily challenges of life taking away one of my life's greatest enjoyments.
The next time someone asks me if I’m a writer, I don’t to dance around my guilt that I haven’t been producing. I plan to just say “yes”.
“Mike, I hear you’re a writer?” a colleague recently asked me.
It’s a question that pops up occasionally in my professional settings. Someone heard about my foray into comedy, or learned I self-published a novel and other shorter works of fiction, or stumbled upon one of my short films on YouTube. Once I figure out the context to their question, I have a few polite, canned responses at the ready. I inquire, smile and nod, and then proceed to share the bare minimum about my pursuits before trying to change the subject. I used to chalk this particular introversion to modesty or shyness (or embarrassment, depending on who’s asking), but lately the reason is much simpler. Because there’s not much I can point to that I’m “writing” these days. Comedy writing has essentially dried up for me, the last short film I directed (“Stage Five”) was seven years ago, and the latest piece of fiction I put out (“Cake Batter”) was during peak COVID lockdowns when there wasn’t much else to do. Apart from the blog post directly below this one, things have been quiet.
Not for lack of trying. I’ve started (and then abandoned) a variety of projects: two short films, a collection of short stories, a new novel, a few feature spec screenplays, and even an episodic podcast series. Probably others I’ve long since forgotten. Maybe “abandon” is too strong. More like…slowly let die? I won’t bore you with the details, except to generically say that “life gets in the way”. But after three years, has life “gotten in the way” of my writing, or has my attempt at writing “gotten in the way” of my life? At what point does one lose the right to call themselves a “writer”? Is there a minimum level of output required? When do the credentials expire?
I ask myself those questions a lot. The constant tug-and-pull between opposing forces. I couldn’t tell you what I had for dinner yesterday, but I can recall with precision what I was wearing the night I finished the first draft of Miss Mezzanine, the layout of the packed Los Angeles movie theater that showed Gala, or the sound of laughter from the Kennedy Center audience laughing at one of my jokes. Yet as those memories drift further and further into my past, I realize I’m not holding up my end of the bargain. And I wonder at what point these memories should be framed not as a venture I’m still actively pursuing, but just cool anecdotes of an old vocation I once enjoyed.
I’ve been fortunate enough in my life to rely solely on passion for the craft to motivate me. Beyond a very real (but very brief) time when my wife and I debated moving to New York City to give this writing thing a try full-time, writing has been a comfortable “side gig” (or “recreational hobby”, when the 1099s would dry up). Not that the very small royalty checks from Audible haven’t been fun to get in the mail, but I never had illusions that they were paying the bills. In fact, net-net, I’m sure I’m way in the red when it comes to my endeavors (the production costs of Gala, a 10-minute short film, still give me heartburn every time I think about it). I’ve been blessed to (mostly) have the resources to bring some of these projects to life, but even when I didn’t, at least there was always the desire to keep me pushing forward…Right?
Which brings me to this post. I miss putting pen to paper. I miss hearing an actor’s interpretation of my words, either on camera or in the audio booth. I miss starting a project but not finishing it. I miss having the @mikesmithwriter Twitter handle with nothing to show for it. I miss those feelings I used to savor. So here is the promise I’m making to myself (and you, I guess, if you’ve stuck around this far). I’m done doing that. I’m done thinking about writing but then taking the easy way out by finding any excuse not to avoid starting. I’m through telling myself I’m too busy to write but then subsequently scrolling through Twitter or Instagram for an hour instead. I’m through allowing the daily challenges of life taking away one of my life's greatest enjoyments.
The next time someone asks me if I’m a writer, I don’t to dance around my guilt that I haven’t been producing. I plan to just say “yes”.
Moving Out, Moving on
September 2, 2022
I’m moving today.
It’s a benign statement, I know—one that tens of thousands of people utter on any given day. But it’s been a long time since that person was me.
Over the years, I’ve witnessed a wide-ranging spectrum of emotions from family and friends that said goodbye to their homes. Since most were upgrades in some way (by their preferred standards), happiness tends to dominate. Sadness usually arises only if it involved childhood homes, those where identities were born and personalities were formed. And as I say goodbye to the quaint, flawed little house that, for the past 15 years, friends and family have called my “starter home” but for me was just “home,” I am surprised to feel…very little at all.
Of course, I felt plenty at first. Most notably, panic.
But it’s probably best to start at the beginning. After graduating college and living at home, I had intended to spend a year or so working at my new job, paying down student loans and saving for a new place. Rent? Own? TBD. But thanks to a little-remembered law passed by Congress 15 years ago that granted new homeowners a tax credit (as a way to boost homebuying during the Great Recession), I decided to take the plunge into home ownership. The financial bump the credit provided was nice, but did not save me from my lack of preparedness. I had barely made a dent in my student loans, and, shortly after moving in, my puny emergency fund quickly dwindled. That first winter when my furnace nearly died, I found myself staring at the repair bill, realizing that I had bitten off more than I could chew.
Thankfully the rocky road leveled out. My wife (then girlfriend) moved in, and my one-income household became our two-income household, which helped us weather the storm that was our next round of appliance disasters. Still, we had our fair share of challenges, especially once a kid came into a picture years later.
Fast-forwarding through the years, although the topic of moving out of our little house popped up from time to time, I always came up with reasons why it didn’t make sense to move right now. Some of my claims were valid, but the real problem was that there was never a good time, in my eyes, to uproot my comfortable life, add to our spending, and choose our kid’s “forever” school. I knew the invisible hourglass was eventually going to run out, I just didn’t know whether it was still half full or if only a few grains of sand remained.
All of this is to say, on the Friday summer day when my wife spotted a “great” house on Zillow, my first reaction was to dismiss it. My wife enjoys casually browsing Zillow and was constantly showing me pictures of houses she liked. But this time was different. She wanted to see it. So my second reaction was panic, followed by a predictable third reaction: rationalization. Buying this house doesn’t make sense, I explained to her. With home pricing reaching unsustainable levels, this was the worst time to buy! Mortgage rates had nearly doubled! Fears of recession! Inflation! But she and I both knew I couldn’t rationalize my way out of a mere open house. There are no binding commitments in an open house.
So we went. And the next day, we put in an offer.
When we shared this news with family and friends, they expressed shock—not that we had purchased a house so quickly, but that I hadn’t spontaneously combusted in the act. The reaction was not unwarranted. You don’t have to scroll far down this blog to realize that I’m the opposite of an impulse buyer. I find it difficult to embrace change, and I tend to drown in my regrets. Yet whatever I may have personally felt or even conveyed to others, it mattered little in the face of my wife’s excitement.
You see, for G, our little house was one of comfort but not one of choice. She’d moved into my home, and while yes, she’d infused it with the taste and character it had lacked when I was alone, she’d never experienced the opportunity to pick a home herself. So, despite my Excel sheet full of loan amortization schedules and bookmarked articles describing the impending housing crash, pumping the brakes would have robbed my wife of something that she had been quietly looking forward to for over a decade. As she expressed in a letter to the sellers (did I mention that we were in a bidding war?), it didn’t matter that we hadn’t planned to move right this second; this house was the right house.
And her letter must have worked, because a couple days later, our last offer was accepted.
After that, everything was dialed up to 11. An unexpected buy meant an unexpected sell, and our current house needed work. Things that wouldn’t have been as overwhelming had we been able to spread them out over a year became gambles: what should we address before putting the house on the market, and what should we roll the dice on and hope for the best? We didn’t have time to do it all. And that’s not to mention the nonstop phone calls and emails with our realtor, bank, code inspector, home inspector, insurance company…the list goes on. I won’t pretend our experience was unique, but every form I needed to sign, every upfront closing cost I had to pay, was another reminder of this massive change about to happen in my life.
And then it eventually slowed down. I was able to stop thinking about what I needed to do for the move, and start thinking about how I felt about the move.
You see, despite spending nearly 1/3 of my life calling this “home”, I’ve had a hard time finding any sentimental attachments or major formations of my identity. And that’s generally how I feel about the new house, too. Sure, the new home is lovely—much more spacious, nestled on a quiet street. And everything from the classic architecture to the woodwork to the décor (including the grand piano, which we get to keep!) is clearly in my wife’s taste. It’s a perfect house for us. But while G is most looking forward to making the house in her image, I’m most looking forward to using the house, and the change it represents, as a springboard to make other changes. Maybe I’ll cut back on caffeine (switch to decaf?), read more print magazines and newspapers (instead of scrolling through articles on my phone), or (speaking of phones) take hard steps to minimize the amount of screentime I’m getting. There are simple changes I can make and old habits I can break that can really improve certain aspects of my day-to-day living that I’d just neglected to focus on out of pure apathy.
And this, I think, is why I harbor so few strong feelings about leaving the house I bought a decade and a half ago. I’ll always think of the anniversary trip G and I took to Europe more than the house we came home to. I won’t miss the setup of my home office, but I’ll miss when our son called it “the paperclip room” for months (which my wife and I latched onto as well) because, well, he found paperclips there one time. He doesn’t remember that of course. And that’s great! To him, it was just a house. The only one he knows but one he’ll probably forget years from now. Instead, this new house is where he will form his identity. Where his personality will be shaped. Where he'll spend his time hanging pictures on his bedroom wall, hosting sleepovers with friends, or (hopefully not) sneaking in the back door if he blows past his curfew. So I don't think it’s apathy I feel after all. I think I’m holding space for my wife’s enthusiasm and for the identity my son will forge in what he’ll probably remember as his only childhood home.
And me, well…I’ll bring the paperclips.
I’m moving today.
It’s a benign statement, I know—one that tens of thousands of people utter on any given day. But it’s been a long time since that person was me.
Over the years, I’ve witnessed a wide-ranging spectrum of emotions from family and friends that said goodbye to their homes. Since most were upgrades in some way (by their preferred standards), happiness tends to dominate. Sadness usually arises only if it involved childhood homes, those where identities were born and personalities were formed. And as I say goodbye to the quaint, flawed little house that, for the past 15 years, friends and family have called my “starter home” but for me was just “home,” I am surprised to feel…very little at all.
Of course, I felt plenty at first. Most notably, panic.
But it’s probably best to start at the beginning. After graduating college and living at home, I had intended to spend a year or so working at my new job, paying down student loans and saving for a new place. Rent? Own? TBD. But thanks to a little-remembered law passed by Congress 15 years ago that granted new homeowners a tax credit (as a way to boost homebuying during the Great Recession), I decided to take the plunge into home ownership. The financial bump the credit provided was nice, but did not save me from my lack of preparedness. I had barely made a dent in my student loans, and, shortly after moving in, my puny emergency fund quickly dwindled. That first winter when my furnace nearly died, I found myself staring at the repair bill, realizing that I had bitten off more than I could chew.
Thankfully the rocky road leveled out. My wife (then girlfriend) moved in, and my one-income household became our two-income household, which helped us weather the storm that was our next round of appliance disasters. Still, we had our fair share of challenges, especially once a kid came into a picture years later.
Fast-forwarding through the years, although the topic of moving out of our little house popped up from time to time, I always came up with reasons why it didn’t make sense to move right now. Some of my claims were valid, but the real problem was that there was never a good time, in my eyes, to uproot my comfortable life, add to our spending, and choose our kid’s “forever” school. I knew the invisible hourglass was eventually going to run out, I just didn’t know whether it was still half full or if only a few grains of sand remained.
All of this is to say, on the Friday summer day when my wife spotted a “great” house on Zillow, my first reaction was to dismiss it. My wife enjoys casually browsing Zillow and was constantly showing me pictures of houses she liked. But this time was different. She wanted to see it. So my second reaction was panic, followed by a predictable third reaction: rationalization. Buying this house doesn’t make sense, I explained to her. With home pricing reaching unsustainable levels, this was the worst time to buy! Mortgage rates had nearly doubled! Fears of recession! Inflation! But she and I both knew I couldn’t rationalize my way out of a mere open house. There are no binding commitments in an open house.
So we went. And the next day, we put in an offer.
When we shared this news with family and friends, they expressed shock—not that we had purchased a house so quickly, but that I hadn’t spontaneously combusted in the act. The reaction was not unwarranted. You don’t have to scroll far down this blog to realize that I’m the opposite of an impulse buyer. I find it difficult to embrace change, and I tend to drown in my regrets. Yet whatever I may have personally felt or even conveyed to others, it mattered little in the face of my wife’s excitement.
You see, for G, our little house was one of comfort but not one of choice. She’d moved into my home, and while yes, she’d infused it with the taste and character it had lacked when I was alone, she’d never experienced the opportunity to pick a home herself. So, despite my Excel sheet full of loan amortization schedules and bookmarked articles describing the impending housing crash, pumping the brakes would have robbed my wife of something that she had been quietly looking forward to for over a decade. As she expressed in a letter to the sellers (did I mention that we were in a bidding war?), it didn’t matter that we hadn’t planned to move right this second; this house was the right house.
And her letter must have worked, because a couple days later, our last offer was accepted.
After that, everything was dialed up to 11. An unexpected buy meant an unexpected sell, and our current house needed work. Things that wouldn’t have been as overwhelming had we been able to spread them out over a year became gambles: what should we address before putting the house on the market, and what should we roll the dice on and hope for the best? We didn’t have time to do it all. And that’s not to mention the nonstop phone calls and emails with our realtor, bank, code inspector, home inspector, insurance company…the list goes on. I won’t pretend our experience was unique, but every form I needed to sign, every upfront closing cost I had to pay, was another reminder of this massive change about to happen in my life.
And then it eventually slowed down. I was able to stop thinking about what I needed to do for the move, and start thinking about how I felt about the move.
You see, despite spending nearly 1/3 of my life calling this “home”, I’ve had a hard time finding any sentimental attachments or major formations of my identity. And that’s generally how I feel about the new house, too. Sure, the new home is lovely—much more spacious, nestled on a quiet street. And everything from the classic architecture to the woodwork to the décor (including the grand piano, which we get to keep!) is clearly in my wife’s taste. It’s a perfect house for us. But while G is most looking forward to making the house in her image, I’m most looking forward to using the house, and the change it represents, as a springboard to make other changes. Maybe I’ll cut back on caffeine (switch to decaf?), read more print magazines and newspapers (instead of scrolling through articles on my phone), or (speaking of phones) take hard steps to minimize the amount of screentime I’m getting. There are simple changes I can make and old habits I can break that can really improve certain aspects of my day-to-day living that I’d just neglected to focus on out of pure apathy.
And this, I think, is why I harbor so few strong feelings about leaving the house I bought a decade and a half ago. I’ll always think of the anniversary trip G and I took to Europe more than the house we came home to. I won’t miss the setup of my home office, but I’ll miss when our son called it “the paperclip room” for months (which my wife and I latched onto as well) because, well, he found paperclips there one time. He doesn’t remember that of course. And that’s great! To him, it was just a house. The only one he knows but one he’ll probably forget years from now. Instead, this new house is where he will form his identity. Where his personality will be shaped. Where he'll spend his time hanging pictures on his bedroom wall, hosting sleepovers with friends, or (hopefully not) sneaking in the back door if he blows past his curfew. So I don't think it’s apathy I feel after all. I think I’m holding space for my wife’s enthusiasm and for the identity my son will forge in what he’ll probably remember as his only childhood home.
And me, well…I’ll bring the paperclips.
Sink or Swim
October 22, 2021
“Mike, I don’t believe you need therapy anymore.”
It was a refreshing moment of honesty from my therapist, and a huge relief for me. After twelve months of regular Zoom sessions, I had reached a similar conclusion, but her saying this saved me from being forced to broach the subject. Not that her statement implied my mental health journey was over. Far from it. Rather, she was indicating that our open and constructive dialogue had reached what we call in economics “the margin of diminishing returns.” Each session was helpful but yielded less benefit than the previous one. Because what was actually happening inside my brain was the primary issue, and learning how to describe and process my experiences (past and present) could only take me so far.
A close friend once asked me what I meant when I said I “suffer from anxiety.”
I’m not afraid of bad things happening, I’m afraid of my decisions causing bad things to happen. Decisions big or small often plague me with intense guilt and regret, to the point where it prohibits me from seeing the forest for the trees. I’m always stuck in the woods.
To use another metaphor, I see the past as a library filled with hundreds upon hundreds of shelves stacked full of books. Within each book is a litany of stupid choices and missed opportunities. Some are from years ago, some from hours ago. And when I’m not revisiting even the most mundane decisions from my past, I’m forecasting the remorse that’ll accompany whatever bad decisions I’ll make tomorrow.
When the past and the future are simultaneously dueling over who will dominate my attention span, it’s very difficult to enjoy the present. It’s a bit like (if you’ll indulge one last metaphor) vacationing on a luxury cruise, where instead of filling up at the buffet, lounging by the pool, or sight-seeing on tropical islands, I’m curled under my bed, clutching my life jacket, certain that the boat is about to sink.
To counter those impulses, I’m constantly seeking validation, backup, or approval for my actions. I do this not because I’m incapable of making a decision or even afraid of being wrong. The reality is that I need that small comfort, the imagined safety net of others who might save me from myself.
That same friend asked me: Why now? Did you always feel this way?
My answer is no. Everyone changes as they grow older, some in simple ways (“I used to drink at the bars until midnight; now I’m in bed at nine o’clock”), some more profound (“I loved being single; now I’m married with three kids!”). We’ve all heard about midlife crises—the stereotypical dad whose act of rebellion involves buying a Mercedes paid for with a home equity loan. That’s not me. When it comes to actions and behavior, I’m generally doing or not doing the things I’ve always done and not done. What has changed is how I’ve interpreted and processed those things and what’s happening around me.
One example is my fading desire to make the people around me laugh. There was a time I’d never pass a chance to crack a joke if I thought it could induce a smile on the other end. That feeling has all but evaporated in so many social settings. This is perhaps somewhat related to my (often irrational) intolerance for risk, which was mild for most of my life and has plummeted to near-zero after becoming a father. I feel frantic at the slightest change of plans and become frustrated to the point of incoherence when forced to adjust on the fly. I have crawled out of bed at 1 a.m. to make sure the email I sent six hours ago didn’t have the wrong attachment or an unclear tone. Things I could casually shake off just a few years earlier might now ruin my entire day for no discernable reason. Painful styes would appear on my left eyelids every six weeks or so, their schedules of appearance almost always preceding incredibly stressful events.
Simply put, something in me had changed. And what drove me to therapy in the first place was that after trying other things first, I felt almost powerless to change it back.
That is not to say—as anyone who knows me will attest—that I am crippled by anxiety. The paradox of anxiety is it’s so universal yet so individualistic. In fact, my awareness of both the broad and deep effects of mental health within society have only forced me more inward.
You’re not really depressed, Mike, not in the traditional sense. You’ve seen firsthand someone in the throes of depression, and it’s horrible. That’s not you.
It’s not really that bad, Mike. Take a look at the good fortune and health around you.
Best not tell anyone, Mike, because it’s not worth spending the rest of the night wishing you hadn’t.
Thus my desire to publicly explore this issue through words—as I do with most issues of importance in my life—has thus far battled (and lost) to my introverted wall of privacy.
So back to that final therapy session. When I first started therapy, I’d been a bit skeptical, not about therapy as a concept, but that it would be helpful for me in this particular case. Riffing in a stream-of-consciousness setting does not come easily to someone who pays an editor to make sense of and improve the precision of my written words. Still, if I recap the entire experience from start to finish, I ultimately did find sessions to be individually and collectively helpful, even if how I expressed myself and my milestones sometimes felt like an unpolished first draft of another short story:
Being able to pinpoint the specific events and moments that pushed me from a person dealing with everyday stress to someone struggling with a more defined problem.
The external positive forces in my life (family, friends, good health, stability) did not always correlate with the internal negative feelings that swam around my head (fear, regret, worry, dread), but that was ok.
I could now compartmentalize what I could and could not control and what could be fixed now versus what could wait until tomorrow.
At their core, these are three very basic concepts that, until recently, I had shrugged off as obvious. But sometimes your mind can play tricks on you, and talking things out over time—even if the things I said were far from the complete, polished narratives I prefer—helped to set me on the right path. If nothing else, it was another form of personal validation that I had become so accustomed to seeking.
So I went along my merry way, saying farewell to the EOBs that I’d received every month in the mail from my insurance company, and hello to the next stage. The stage where I acknowledge that even if my body is raining anxiety, it’s possible to carry an umbrella. Where I can make certain statements to myself like “Your clarity in that email makes it unlikely to be misinterpreted” or “It’s good you’ve received constructive feedback, you can always do better next time.” Or, more importantly, statements like:
“You can click ‘publish’ on this post, Mike. It will be ok.”
“Mike, I don’t believe you need therapy anymore.”
It was a refreshing moment of honesty from my therapist, and a huge relief for me. After twelve months of regular Zoom sessions, I had reached a similar conclusion, but her saying this saved me from being forced to broach the subject. Not that her statement implied my mental health journey was over. Far from it. Rather, she was indicating that our open and constructive dialogue had reached what we call in economics “the margin of diminishing returns.” Each session was helpful but yielded less benefit than the previous one. Because what was actually happening inside my brain was the primary issue, and learning how to describe and process my experiences (past and present) could only take me so far.
A close friend once asked me what I meant when I said I “suffer from anxiety.”
I’m not afraid of bad things happening, I’m afraid of my decisions causing bad things to happen. Decisions big or small often plague me with intense guilt and regret, to the point where it prohibits me from seeing the forest for the trees. I’m always stuck in the woods.
To use another metaphor, I see the past as a library filled with hundreds upon hundreds of shelves stacked full of books. Within each book is a litany of stupid choices and missed opportunities. Some are from years ago, some from hours ago. And when I’m not revisiting even the most mundane decisions from my past, I’m forecasting the remorse that’ll accompany whatever bad decisions I’ll make tomorrow.
When the past and the future are simultaneously dueling over who will dominate my attention span, it’s very difficult to enjoy the present. It’s a bit like (if you’ll indulge one last metaphor) vacationing on a luxury cruise, where instead of filling up at the buffet, lounging by the pool, or sight-seeing on tropical islands, I’m curled under my bed, clutching my life jacket, certain that the boat is about to sink.
To counter those impulses, I’m constantly seeking validation, backup, or approval for my actions. I do this not because I’m incapable of making a decision or even afraid of being wrong. The reality is that I need that small comfort, the imagined safety net of others who might save me from myself.
That same friend asked me: Why now? Did you always feel this way?
My answer is no. Everyone changes as they grow older, some in simple ways (“I used to drink at the bars until midnight; now I’m in bed at nine o’clock”), some more profound (“I loved being single; now I’m married with three kids!”). We’ve all heard about midlife crises—the stereotypical dad whose act of rebellion involves buying a Mercedes paid for with a home equity loan. That’s not me. When it comes to actions and behavior, I’m generally doing or not doing the things I’ve always done and not done. What has changed is how I’ve interpreted and processed those things and what’s happening around me.
One example is my fading desire to make the people around me laugh. There was a time I’d never pass a chance to crack a joke if I thought it could induce a smile on the other end. That feeling has all but evaporated in so many social settings. This is perhaps somewhat related to my (often irrational) intolerance for risk, which was mild for most of my life and has plummeted to near-zero after becoming a father. I feel frantic at the slightest change of plans and become frustrated to the point of incoherence when forced to adjust on the fly. I have crawled out of bed at 1 a.m. to make sure the email I sent six hours ago didn’t have the wrong attachment or an unclear tone. Things I could casually shake off just a few years earlier might now ruin my entire day for no discernable reason. Painful styes would appear on my left eyelids every six weeks or so, their schedules of appearance almost always preceding incredibly stressful events.
Simply put, something in me had changed. And what drove me to therapy in the first place was that after trying other things first, I felt almost powerless to change it back.
That is not to say—as anyone who knows me will attest—that I am crippled by anxiety. The paradox of anxiety is it’s so universal yet so individualistic. In fact, my awareness of both the broad and deep effects of mental health within society have only forced me more inward.
You’re not really depressed, Mike, not in the traditional sense. You’ve seen firsthand someone in the throes of depression, and it’s horrible. That’s not you.
It’s not really that bad, Mike. Take a look at the good fortune and health around you.
Best not tell anyone, Mike, because it’s not worth spending the rest of the night wishing you hadn’t.
Thus my desire to publicly explore this issue through words—as I do with most issues of importance in my life—has thus far battled (and lost) to my introverted wall of privacy.
So back to that final therapy session. When I first started therapy, I’d been a bit skeptical, not about therapy as a concept, but that it would be helpful for me in this particular case. Riffing in a stream-of-consciousness setting does not come easily to someone who pays an editor to make sense of and improve the precision of my written words. Still, if I recap the entire experience from start to finish, I ultimately did find sessions to be individually and collectively helpful, even if how I expressed myself and my milestones sometimes felt like an unpolished first draft of another short story:
Being able to pinpoint the specific events and moments that pushed me from a person dealing with everyday stress to someone struggling with a more defined problem.
The external positive forces in my life (family, friends, good health, stability) did not always correlate with the internal negative feelings that swam around my head (fear, regret, worry, dread), but that was ok.
I could now compartmentalize what I could and could not control and what could be fixed now versus what could wait until tomorrow.
At their core, these are three very basic concepts that, until recently, I had shrugged off as obvious. But sometimes your mind can play tricks on you, and talking things out over time—even if the things I said were far from the complete, polished narratives I prefer—helped to set me on the right path. If nothing else, it was another form of personal validation that I had become so accustomed to seeking.
So I went along my merry way, saying farewell to the EOBs that I’d received every month in the mail from my insurance company, and hello to the next stage. The stage where I acknowledge that even if my body is raining anxiety, it’s possible to carry an umbrella. Where I can make certain statements to myself like “Your clarity in that email makes it unlikely to be misinterpreted” or “It’s good you’ve received constructive feedback, you can always do better next time.” Or, more importantly, statements like:
“You can click ‘publish’ on this post, Mike. It will be ok.”
Bringing in Baby Pt 3 - One and Done?
January 13, 2019
Parenting is hard. Turns out, just being a parent is even harder.
At the time of my last writing over a year ago, my son was still in his “pet rock” stage: eat, cry, poop, sleep, repeat. The worst part was the three months of sleep deprivation, taking shifts on the couch while the other parent locked themselves in the bedroom with white noise blasting through our headphones. See my previous post for all the gory details. That stage, thankfully, is over.
Now he walks. Laughs. Says a few words (mostly jumbled). He’s developed a personality. Also, now that he’s a little older (and sleeping), he, my wife, and I have settled into a comfortable routine. He goes to bed around the same time every night. We have a pretty solid daycare pick-up/drop-off schedule. My wife and I balance our duties (she packs his lunches while I wash all the bottles; she gets him ready for daycare while I get him ready for bed). While those first few months were torturous, things have started to get a little easier, one day at a time. At least on the outside.
It goes without saying (although here I am saying it) that I love my son more than anything in the world. The cliché that you can’t put a parent’s love into words is true. But such an indescribable love comes with a plethora of emotional strings. I worry constantly. Every day. Every minute. Every second. I worry about immediate things (“Don’t trip!”), future problems (“What if he’s bullied in school?”), and ridiculous hypotheticals (“What if we experience famine?”). I create the most horrific scenarios and then struggle to figure out how I can protect him. And as a writer, I can come up with an astonishingly vast number of scenarios.
As a result, my fuse has shortened considerably. The smallest disruption or annoyance will stress me out. On one day I might audibly huff and puff, while the next day I’ll turn into an affect-less robot. I noticed this shift months ago, but I kept quiet, with varying degrees of success. My wife noticed too, and suggested anti-anxiety medication. I think about it, but know it’s not for me. Yet deep down I knew – even if I couldn’t publicly admit it – that there was nothing about my son’s behavior that was out of the ordinary. He was just a baby being a baby. And we’ve been incredibly fortunate that we haven’t experienced any major complications or episodes. No, my frustrations were rooted less in what was happening in front of me, and more from a fictional world I’ve created for the future. So one day, I finally opened up to my wife about what was truly bothering me.
“I don’t think I can do this all over again.”
You see, even to the most self-occupying toddler, keeping tabs on a young kid takes constant attention and focus. Try reading a newspaper
article without your kid climbing up the television or swallowing a penny buried in the couch cushion. Nor is it cheap. Cutting a check for daycare has been manageable, but the concept of doubling that number gives me a gag reflex. And it’s truly difficult to maintain the sense of self – or couple hood - you may have had pre-baby. After all, it took me over a year to write this blog. Planning date nights with my wife requires the logistical coordination of D-Day and even then there have been a couple occasions when we’ve had to cancel since our kid was sick. Having a child, particularly in the early stages, guarantees a sliding scale of time commitment, stress and expense. And since we’ve gotten into a good groove with one, I can’t imagine taking a wrecking ball to that progress, starting over, and doubling it. I’m confident that we could handle another baby, but I can’t think of a single moment in the past two years when I’ve actively wanted one.
Yet uttering that sentence to her, while simple on the surface, conflicts with everything that is expected of me. Nearly everyone I know has or will have multiple children, and as if on cue, our parents and friends repeatedly reference (ever-so passively) the concept of our son having a little brother or sister. I convince myself I can rebut that though. After all, the most important function as a parent is to create your own boundaries and values. Input and influence is fine, but the second you cave to pressure on something you know is right for your child or family, it begins a slippery slope into outsourcing your decision-making.
Plus there’s the worry that I’m selfishly neglecting what may be best for him. Look, I have a brother. We’re incredibly close. We share battle wounds from growing up poor in a single-parent household where for years our shower was a hose attached to a laundry tub. My parents have a dozen siblings between them and they’re all still incredibly close. My wife has a twin sister and I can see no matter how close she may be with her other friends, nothing could compare to the bond and history they share. No one has to sell me on the value and importance of siblings. I can’t imagine life without mine. But then again, that’s because my life wasn’t without him.
Most importantly though, I worry about disappointing my wife, who I know wants one more child to round out the stereotypical nuclear family. As a person reluctant to have children in the first place, I worried that this exact scenario might happen, since when we finally made the decision to move forward, neither of us said to the other “Let’s just have one and see what happens.” It was always assumed, fairly or unfairly, that by having one, we were committing ourselves to having another.
“We don’t have to think about another baby now,” she replies. “Let’s see what happens down the road.” She means it too. Her empathy and compassion run through every bone in her body and she’ll never pressure me into doing something I don’t want to do. Still though, I know we’re not naturally on the same page, and that her reply contains at least a hint of “he’ll change his mind later”. So that’s why, to be truly honest and avoid any sense of false expectation, I say: “I don’t think I will.”
So what to do if one parent wants a second baby and the other doesn’t? How do you bridge that gap? You can’t have half a baby. Then again, you can’t have half a parent, either. And unless my mindset drastically adjusts over the next few years, I can’t imagine being in a scenario where I fully embrace having more. Even if she does. So by default, inaction typically wins out—which then sends me into a perpetual spiral of guilt. It’s why I couldn’t say anything for so long in the first place. I never wanted a future baby to be a bargaining chip to our happiness. I never wanted to say, however true, that one is just enough.
Since that talk, I’ve taken to searching random articles on the internet that show the benefits of having an only child. “Oh, see, they’re smarter!” “Oh look, they’re more likely to succeed!” Of course, I fully recognize digging through the bowels of the internet to find someone who agrees with me is less about convincing anyone and more about trying to shed the guilt I have in making a firm decision for myself. In the end, though, none of it matters.
All I can do is continue to focus on being the best possible father that I can be for my son without pressuring myself that I’ll need to be the best father for two. I’m doing everything in my power to teach him empathy, respect for others, and hopefully, the proper way to tie his shoes. He smiles at me now, and even at 15 months, we have little inside jokes together that make him laugh. God, that smile he flashes me after I come home from work, showing he missed me, can make up for an otherwise miserable day. It’s an amazing feeling to know that you’re unconditionally loved. He’s won my heart in every way possible. My heart is already as full as it can possibly be.
Maybe I’ll change my mind (because imagine two heart-melting smiles!). Maybe I won’t (I tend to be pretty stubborn). Or maybe some third thing will happen (“oops baby!”). I’m at least comfortable enough in my preferences while accepting the fact that they may change in the future. But if my son ends up being an only child, I’m pretty confident that I’ll be able to explain to him that the reason he doesn’t have a little brother or sister is because it was best for everyone in our family, including him.
Don’t worry, I’ll know exactly what to say. I read an article about it.
Parenting is hard. Turns out, just being a parent is even harder.
At the time of my last writing over a year ago, my son was still in his “pet rock” stage: eat, cry, poop, sleep, repeat. The worst part was the three months of sleep deprivation, taking shifts on the couch while the other parent locked themselves in the bedroom with white noise blasting through our headphones. See my previous post for all the gory details. That stage, thankfully, is over.
Now he walks. Laughs. Says a few words (mostly jumbled). He’s developed a personality. Also, now that he’s a little older (and sleeping), he, my wife, and I have settled into a comfortable routine. He goes to bed around the same time every night. We have a pretty solid daycare pick-up/drop-off schedule. My wife and I balance our duties (she packs his lunches while I wash all the bottles; she gets him ready for daycare while I get him ready for bed). While those first few months were torturous, things have started to get a little easier, one day at a time. At least on the outside.
It goes without saying (although here I am saying it) that I love my son more than anything in the world. The cliché that you can’t put a parent’s love into words is true. But such an indescribable love comes with a plethora of emotional strings. I worry constantly. Every day. Every minute. Every second. I worry about immediate things (“Don’t trip!”), future problems (“What if he’s bullied in school?”), and ridiculous hypotheticals (“What if we experience famine?”). I create the most horrific scenarios and then struggle to figure out how I can protect him. And as a writer, I can come up with an astonishingly vast number of scenarios.
As a result, my fuse has shortened considerably. The smallest disruption or annoyance will stress me out. On one day I might audibly huff and puff, while the next day I’ll turn into an affect-less robot. I noticed this shift months ago, but I kept quiet, with varying degrees of success. My wife noticed too, and suggested anti-anxiety medication. I think about it, but know it’s not for me. Yet deep down I knew – even if I couldn’t publicly admit it – that there was nothing about my son’s behavior that was out of the ordinary. He was just a baby being a baby. And we’ve been incredibly fortunate that we haven’t experienced any major complications or episodes. No, my frustrations were rooted less in what was happening in front of me, and more from a fictional world I’ve created for the future. So one day, I finally opened up to my wife about what was truly bothering me.
“I don’t think I can do this all over again.”
You see, even to the most self-occupying toddler, keeping tabs on a young kid takes constant attention and focus. Try reading a newspaper
article without your kid climbing up the television or swallowing a penny buried in the couch cushion. Nor is it cheap. Cutting a check for daycare has been manageable, but the concept of doubling that number gives me a gag reflex. And it’s truly difficult to maintain the sense of self – or couple hood - you may have had pre-baby. After all, it took me over a year to write this blog. Planning date nights with my wife requires the logistical coordination of D-Day and even then there have been a couple occasions when we’ve had to cancel since our kid was sick. Having a child, particularly in the early stages, guarantees a sliding scale of time commitment, stress and expense. And since we’ve gotten into a good groove with one, I can’t imagine taking a wrecking ball to that progress, starting over, and doubling it. I’m confident that we could handle another baby, but I can’t think of a single moment in the past two years when I’ve actively wanted one.
Yet uttering that sentence to her, while simple on the surface, conflicts with everything that is expected of me. Nearly everyone I know has or will have multiple children, and as if on cue, our parents and friends repeatedly reference (ever-so passively) the concept of our son having a little brother or sister. I convince myself I can rebut that though. After all, the most important function as a parent is to create your own boundaries and values. Input and influence is fine, but the second you cave to pressure on something you know is right for your child or family, it begins a slippery slope into outsourcing your decision-making.
Plus there’s the worry that I’m selfishly neglecting what may be best for him. Look, I have a brother. We’re incredibly close. We share battle wounds from growing up poor in a single-parent household where for years our shower was a hose attached to a laundry tub. My parents have a dozen siblings between them and they’re all still incredibly close. My wife has a twin sister and I can see no matter how close she may be with her other friends, nothing could compare to the bond and history they share. No one has to sell me on the value and importance of siblings. I can’t imagine life without mine. But then again, that’s because my life wasn’t without him.
Most importantly though, I worry about disappointing my wife, who I know wants one more child to round out the stereotypical nuclear family. As a person reluctant to have children in the first place, I worried that this exact scenario might happen, since when we finally made the decision to move forward, neither of us said to the other “Let’s just have one and see what happens.” It was always assumed, fairly or unfairly, that by having one, we were committing ourselves to having another.
“We don’t have to think about another baby now,” she replies. “Let’s see what happens down the road.” She means it too. Her empathy and compassion run through every bone in her body and she’ll never pressure me into doing something I don’t want to do. Still though, I know we’re not naturally on the same page, and that her reply contains at least a hint of “he’ll change his mind later”. So that’s why, to be truly honest and avoid any sense of false expectation, I say: “I don’t think I will.”
So what to do if one parent wants a second baby and the other doesn’t? How do you bridge that gap? You can’t have half a baby. Then again, you can’t have half a parent, either. And unless my mindset drastically adjusts over the next few years, I can’t imagine being in a scenario where I fully embrace having more. Even if she does. So by default, inaction typically wins out—which then sends me into a perpetual spiral of guilt. It’s why I couldn’t say anything for so long in the first place. I never wanted a future baby to be a bargaining chip to our happiness. I never wanted to say, however true, that one is just enough.
Since that talk, I’ve taken to searching random articles on the internet that show the benefits of having an only child. “Oh, see, they’re smarter!” “Oh look, they’re more likely to succeed!” Of course, I fully recognize digging through the bowels of the internet to find someone who agrees with me is less about convincing anyone and more about trying to shed the guilt I have in making a firm decision for myself. In the end, though, none of it matters.
All I can do is continue to focus on being the best possible father that I can be for my son without pressuring myself that I’ll need to be the best father for two. I’m doing everything in my power to teach him empathy, respect for others, and hopefully, the proper way to tie his shoes. He smiles at me now, and even at 15 months, we have little inside jokes together that make him laugh. God, that smile he flashes me after I come home from work, showing he missed me, can make up for an otherwise miserable day. It’s an amazing feeling to know that you’re unconditionally loved. He’s won my heart in every way possible. My heart is already as full as it can possibly be.
Maybe I’ll change my mind (because imagine two heart-melting smiles!). Maybe I won’t (I tend to be pretty stubborn). Or maybe some third thing will happen (“oops baby!”). I’m at least comfortable enough in my preferences while accepting the fact that they may change in the future. But if my son ends up being an only child, I’m pretty confident that I’ll be able to explain to him that the reason he doesn’t have a little brother or sister is because it was best for everyone in our family, including him.
Don’t worry, I’ll know exactly what to say. I read an article about it.
Bringing In Baby Pt 2 - This is Real
November 20, 2017
For the past two months, I’ve struggled trying to figure out how to write this post. How to make this entire experience seem interesting. How to frame my remarks within some broader context. But I’ve decided to set aside any preconceived notion that this post should include any illuminating truths and instead just tell my story in the most honest way possible. The fact is, my experience only constitutes a fraction of our experience, and my perspective isn’t the one that matters most. That said, while childbirth and parenthood from the father’s point of view is certainly incomplete, you’ll just have to trust me when I say that my wife’s experience is reflected throughout this post (in her own words) and she has given it her blessing. So here goes.
Friday morning. It was our 38-week checkup. Like all the others, we scheduled it super early in the morning so that we both made it to work before anyone would notice. I was especially tired that morning. The night before, I caught a late-night screening of “IT” with my brother and friend. I didn’t fall asleep until well after 2am. No worries, I thought as I fixed myself a cup of coffee, I’ll make up the sleep tonight.
We arrived at the midwives center around 7:30am. At the onset of her pregnancy, I was a bit skeptical of the midwives, not out of malice or prejudice, but complete ignorance for how their practice differs from a normal OBGYN. “So does this mean our baby is going to be born in the woods or something?” I joked with my wife early on. But I quickly learned their primary features: emphasis on birth being treated as a normal process and not a medical issue, adherence to the mother’s wishes, etc. The midwives were always very welcoming and the mere fact that they were based in a hospital that produces 11,000 births per year – with some of the best OBGYNs in the city in the same building – quickly dispelled any of my (unfounded) concerns.
On that particular day, we first met with “T”, one of my personal favorite midwives in the practice. The checkup began just like the others. She’d check Gabrielle’s vitals, rattle off the normal questions (“Feeling ok?” “Any unusual pains?”), we’d listen to the baby’s heartbeat, schedule our next appointment and be on our merry way. This time though, “T” looked concerned near the end of the visit. She leaned over: “Look, your blood pressure is a little high. Are you in a hurry? Do you mind if we run a couple tests? I’m sure everything is fine but we want to rule out the possibility of preeclampsia.”
Pre-what-a? I thought, silently opening Safari on my phone, googling a word I didn’t quite know how to spell. I’ll save the definition for Wikipedia, but apparently high blood pressure combined with a couple other factors increases the risk of much scarier things, including a stroke. It’s not uncommon for hospitals to want to induce mothers early to avoid the heightened risk.
“No, that’s fine,” Gab responded. “T” directed us upstairs to the blood work labs.
Two hours, a pee test, and some poking and prodding later, we ended up hanging out in Triage, Gabrielle uncomfortably laden in a tiny bed and me sitting next to her, sweating profusely in my business attire. At this point, the entire exercise was an annoyance more than anything else: precaution taken to the extreme. Neither of us actually believed Gabrielle was at risk of anything. We were more worried about missing important work meetings. Still, to be safe, I texted our immediate family about what was happening and promised to keep them updated.
A short time later, another midwife (“S”) entered the room. After exchanging pleasantries (again), “S” informed us that she had just spoken with the OBGYN on staff. Gabrielle’s urine contained protein above normal levels. Not much, but still above. Neither that nor her high blood pressure by themselves would cause major worry, but since both numbers were concerning, they made a collective decision to admit and induce her.
When I heard those words, I started shaking. Induce? What? She was two weeks early! We hadn’t packed the hospital bag! I was wearing a suit for God’s sake! No, no, no, this wasn’t right, I thought. In my mind, everything was supposed to be as formulaic as we learned about in our birthing class. A quiet labor that begins at home, elevator music in the background, followed by a smooth drive to the hospital once we knew we were close. And on the due date. Definitely on the due date. How could this be happening now?
As usual, Gabrielle remained her calm self while her partner – her supposed support system – was falling apart. She joked that I might need admitted too.
“So does this mean…this baby may be coming today?” I asked.
The midwife turned to me.
“Well, maybe, but keep in mind that inductions of this nature typically result in longer labors. We could be talking as long as 36 hours.” At first I thought she said three or six hours, since I couldn’t imagine someone enduring the pain of labor for more than a full day. That just seemed like cruel and unusual punishment. But nope, 36. And the clock was starting soon.
Perhaps I’m in the minority, but I honestly had no idea how an induction worked. I grasped the general concept (forced labor), but the biological mechanisms of how they can do that…no idea. Well, without getting into the gross details, let me just simplify it by saying that a tiny bulb is placed somewhere you wouldn’t want a bulb being placed and it does something in that place you wouldn’t want done. That entire process could take anywhere from a few hours to nearly a full day before they reached the next stage. So there was really nothing for us to do but sit around and wait.
A few hours later, we were moved out of Triage and into our labor and delivery room. What a magical place. The place was about the size of a hotel room, with a nice-sized and comfortable couch, flat screen TV a spacious shower, and…oh yeah that bed where Gabrielle was actually going to deliver the baby. We were introduced to our new nurse, and I joked how if she was lucky, she’d be around to meet the cutest baby that ever graced the hospital. It was a corny joke, but I found the only way I could mask my fear and anxiety was cracking jokes. Humor often served as my defense mechanism and that day was no exception.
They hooked her up to an IV and started giving her a drug called Pitocin. Of course I had to pull out The Google again on that one. Pitocin is basically a synthetic hormone that makes your body think you’re in labor thus moves it further along. I don’t quite understand the mathematics, but on the IV monitor, the amounts that she was given was gradually being increased in increments of 2. The higher number/dosage, the more intense the contractions became.
As we headed into the evening, our parents swung by and visited as we all began to prepare for the big event. All of us were still shocked that we were in this situation two weeks earlier than expected, but the most surprising was that Gabrielle was barely in any pain. She was definitely having contractions (I learned you can actually follow along with them on the monitor), but they were small enough at this point that she often didn’t realize she was having one. That generally meant that we were still a long way from delivery, so we said our goodbyes and tried to get some sleep. It wouldn’t be for several weeks before I could sleep that long.
Gabrielle’s labor throughout Saturday morning was the same as the day before. We reached the 24 hour mark with barely any progress. She was still only a couple centimeters dilated and the needle had barely nudged. Still, even upping her dosage up to 20 (whatever that actually meant), wasn’t doing a lot. So when “S” came in around 2pm, they said they wanted to test out another trick: breaking her water.
Turns out that like everything else involving her labor, her water breaking could be controlled. Within minutes they had broken it. And they were not kidding: things really started to pick up from there. Gabrielle’s contractions soon started to intensify, and watching them on the monitor became a brutal exercise in time. For a couple hours, she persisted through them, sometimes gritting her teeth through a contraction, other times contorting her body in unusual positions, and nearly every time gripping my hand. And between each contraction, she would complain to me how hungry she was.
By 5pm, Gabrielle decided to quit fighting the pain and called for the epidural. Thankfully for her that didn’t require any tough moral decision. She joked for nine months “Dude I don’t care about going natural, give me that f—king needle”, but she wanted to delay it as long as she could. Knowing she’d get some relief relieved me too, and I was thrilled when the anesthesiologist walked into our room to administer it for her.
Dr. W. was amazing. Not too much older than us, she exhibited a certain comfort in the way she spoke to Gabrielle. She treated her like less of a patient and more a person who was just hanging out with us. That’s not to say she wasn’t an astute professional, but I sensed that her demeanor was no accident. It instantly calmed the room.
As she explained the introductions – Gabrielle would lean forward on the bed, I’d sit directly in front of her – she also answered our questions, and took the opportunity to explain the misconceptions about epidurals and anesthesia in general.
“Yeah, and I bet that awful Hayden Christiansen movie didn’t help your profession, huh?”
“What movie?” she asked.
“Mike for the love of God-“ Gabrielle interjected, but it was too late. I had already pulled up the movie poster on my phone and was explaining the film’s awful plot and how it was only made because it was during that peak Jessica Alba phase. By the time I was explaining the third act twist, Dr. W. had pulled out the needle and administered the test dose. I was sure to use Gabrielle’s body to obstruct the view, otherwise they’d have to administer their smelling salts on me.
Within minutes the medicine had kicked in and Gabrielle was starting to return to normal. The news relieved everyone involved (by now our parents had come back to the hospital). But something wasn’t right. Less than an hour later, the pain had come back, almost as strong as it was before. She kept pushing that button (which releases more medicine) but the net effect was basically zero.
“Is this normal?” I asked “S”.
She smiled and tried to remain neutral before she eventually admitted that it was uncommon for an epidural to basically “miss” like this. They continued to monitor her for several hours before bringing a different anesthesiologist. They tried the same procedure again. Again, I sat at the foot of the bed, gripping my wife’s hand and telling her she was going to be ok. I wasn’t cracking jokes this time. But again, nothing seemed to work.
By now it was nearly midnight, and the halls of the hospital were quiet absent the continuing beeps of the monitor. Nurses and midwives would occasionally check on her, but it was mostly just the two of us. She had reached about 6 centimeters, and we were told that the normal progression at this point was about 1 centimeter per hour. So with every painful contraction, I would hold her hand and tell her she only had a few more of these before she would be able to push, and this baby would be born, and the pain would go away and would be replaced by the bliss of our new child.
Deep down I felt like I was lying. Because even though I certainly was not a doctor, something in my gut told me that her labor was not going to progress the way it needed to.
The rest of the night offered more of the same. Painful contraction after painful contraction. By this point, Gabrielle had tried every possible maneuver to help alleviate the intensity but nothing did the trick. Her reaction now was to simply moan in pain with her eyes closed until she was past the peak. Each contraction killed me because I knew there was no way I could shift the pain from her onto me. But watching the person you love in agonizing pain is worse than any kind of pain you could ever experience yourself.
But millions of women give birth every year Mike. So what! I’m sure millions of people pass kidney stones every single day, but it’s certainly not comforting in the moment to remind someone of statistics.
The rest of the night (and my timeline of the events) was a complete blur. At some point (4am maybe?) the midwife entered.
“Listen,” she began, “one of the things we can do is decrease the amount of Pitocin you’re receiving, which will make these contractions easier to bear.”
Do it! I nearly screamed in my seat.
“But you should realize that this is only temporary. It will make these contractions easier, but your labor effectively stops progressing.” Yet that’s what was eventually agreed upon. The pain was just too much for Gabrielle and she needed the relief.
The sun came up a couple of hours later. We had now passed the 44 hour mark. At one point, during one of Gabrielle’s most painful contractions, Dr. W. entered the room again, confused.
“Why am I hearing screams from this room? I should not be hearing screams from this room.”
Soon two anesthesiologists, two nurses, a midwife, and an OBGYN huddled around my wife’s bed, staring at her. This anomaly of a patient. Phrases like “I just don’t understand…” and “This is so rare” kept flying out of their mouths. To have not one, not two epidurals completely miss was extremely uncommon, so they suggested adminstering what was effectively a spinal tap. Dr. W was back in the hot seat, and this time, they upped the dosage.
“I’m giving you half of what we give our c-section patients, so this has gotta work.”
So once again, I hovered in front of her, holding her hands as she shut her eyes and prayed that this epidural would finally click. And while there may have been a temporary tease of relief for a few minutes, essentially, she was back to square one. The same pain as before – except this time, there was another complication.
Because they had slowed down the contractions a few hours earlier, she effectively had to restart from a previous mark. But nothing was happening. Her contractions – while still painful – were not progressing to the intensity that she needed to get to in order to reach the “pushing” stage. She was stuck between 8 and 9 centimeters, and, to use a horrific metaphor, her engine was out of steam.
By this point, Gabrielle was a physical and emotional trainwreck. It’d be a lie to say that I was thinking primarily of the baby at that point; personally, I just wanted her misery and anticipation to end. With only a couple hours left before entering Day 3, the midwife crouched over, inches from Gab’s face, which was covered with tears.
“Is it too late to have a c-section?” Gab weeped.
“That’s certainly a viable option,” she paused, before finishing. “You may only have an hour left of labor. Or you might have five. Or…it’s possible that your labor won’t proceed beyond this point.”
I’m sure most of my readers are probably scratching their heads, asking themselves “Why on Earth didn’t they say this before? Why did they
allow her to sit in labor for two full days!?”
Because that’s what Gab wanted. She had made it very clear from the get-go that a c-section was something she only wanted as a last resort. She recounted the stories from a couple personal friends who felt that they were pushed into a c-section too early. People sometimes forget that it’s a major abdominal surgery! But the midwives continually respected her wishes and only confirmed that option when she knew a traditional birth was becoming less and less likely.
“Just cut me open, I am desperate,” she said.
And that was that. While there were other c-sections scheduled on the docket, they bumped Gab’s up to be next. The doctors were all concerned about that latest dosage of medicine wearing off; even worse, they were worried that it’d be possible any additional medication wouldn’t work at all during the surgery. So within a half hour, they wheeled her into a surgery room, leaving me alone with a hospital gown, mask and little boots to cover your shoes.
That twenty minute wait felt like hours, as the room I’d spent two days watching my wife cry and moan in was now eerily quiet and empty. When a nurse finally came back and escorted me into the surgery room, I was instructed to close my eyes as I walked around the front of her body. I obliged, but I couldn’t help but notice the parade of doctors gathered around her midsection. They plopped me down on a chair next to Gabrielle, who was barely conscious.
“How long do you think this’ll take?” I asked Dr. W. a few minutes later, who stood behind Gabrielle’s head, controlling the flow of her medication.
“Can’t you hear?” she whispered. “Your baby is here.”
(keep reading below pictures)
For the past two months, I’ve struggled trying to figure out how to write this post. How to make this entire experience seem interesting. How to frame my remarks within some broader context. But I’ve decided to set aside any preconceived notion that this post should include any illuminating truths and instead just tell my story in the most honest way possible. The fact is, my experience only constitutes a fraction of our experience, and my perspective isn’t the one that matters most. That said, while childbirth and parenthood from the father’s point of view is certainly incomplete, you’ll just have to trust me when I say that my wife’s experience is reflected throughout this post (in her own words) and she has given it her blessing. So here goes.
Friday morning. It was our 38-week checkup. Like all the others, we scheduled it super early in the morning so that we both made it to work before anyone would notice. I was especially tired that morning. The night before, I caught a late-night screening of “IT” with my brother and friend. I didn’t fall asleep until well after 2am. No worries, I thought as I fixed myself a cup of coffee, I’ll make up the sleep tonight.
We arrived at the midwives center around 7:30am. At the onset of her pregnancy, I was a bit skeptical of the midwives, not out of malice or prejudice, but complete ignorance for how their practice differs from a normal OBGYN. “So does this mean our baby is going to be born in the woods or something?” I joked with my wife early on. But I quickly learned their primary features: emphasis on birth being treated as a normal process and not a medical issue, adherence to the mother’s wishes, etc. The midwives were always very welcoming and the mere fact that they were based in a hospital that produces 11,000 births per year – with some of the best OBGYNs in the city in the same building – quickly dispelled any of my (unfounded) concerns.
On that particular day, we first met with “T”, one of my personal favorite midwives in the practice. The checkup began just like the others. She’d check Gabrielle’s vitals, rattle off the normal questions (“Feeling ok?” “Any unusual pains?”), we’d listen to the baby’s heartbeat, schedule our next appointment and be on our merry way. This time though, “T” looked concerned near the end of the visit. She leaned over: “Look, your blood pressure is a little high. Are you in a hurry? Do you mind if we run a couple tests? I’m sure everything is fine but we want to rule out the possibility of preeclampsia.”
Pre-what-a? I thought, silently opening Safari on my phone, googling a word I didn’t quite know how to spell. I’ll save the definition for Wikipedia, but apparently high blood pressure combined with a couple other factors increases the risk of much scarier things, including a stroke. It’s not uncommon for hospitals to want to induce mothers early to avoid the heightened risk.
“No, that’s fine,” Gab responded. “T” directed us upstairs to the blood work labs.
Two hours, a pee test, and some poking and prodding later, we ended up hanging out in Triage, Gabrielle uncomfortably laden in a tiny bed and me sitting next to her, sweating profusely in my business attire. At this point, the entire exercise was an annoyance more than anything else: precaution taken to the extreme. Neither of us actually believed Gabrielle was at risk of anything. We were more worried about missing important work meetings. Still, to be safe, I texted our immediate family about what was happening and promised to keep them updated.
A short time later, another midwife (“S”) entered the room. After exchanging pleasantries (again), “S” informed us that she had just spoken with the OBGYN on staff. Gabrielle’s urine contained protein above normal levels. Not much, but still above. Neither that nor her high blood pressure by themselves would cause major worry, but since both numbers were concerning, they made a collective decision to admit and induce her.
When I heard those words, I started shaking. Induce? What? She was two weeks early! We hadn’t packed the hospital bag! I was wearing a suit for God’s sake! No, no, no, this wasn’t right, I thought. In my mind, everything was supposed to be as formulaic as we learned about in our birthing class. A quiet labor that begins at home, elevator music in the background, followed by a smooth drive to the hospital once we knew we were close. And on the due date. Definitely on the due date. How could this be happening now?
As usual, Gabrielle remained her calm self while her partner – her supposed support system – was falling apart. She joked that I might need admitted too.
“So does this mean…this baby may be coming today?” I asked.
The midwife turned to me.
“Well, maybe, but keep in mind that inductions of this nature typically result in longer labors. We could be talking as long as 36 hours.” At first I thought she said three or six hours, since I couldn’t imagine someone enduring the pain of labor for more than a full day. That just seemed like cruel and unusual punishment. But nope, 36. And the clock was starting soon.
Perhaps I’m in the minority, but I honestly had no idea how an induction worked. I grasped the general concept (forced labor), but the biological mechanisms of how they can do that…no idea. Well, without getting into the gross details, let me just simplify it by saying that a tiny bulb is placed somewhere you wouldn’t want a bulb being placed and it does something in that place you wouldn’t want done. That entire process could take anywhere from a few hours to nearly a full day before they reached the next stage. So there was really nothing for us to do but sit around and wait.
A few hours later, we were moved out of Triage and into our labor and delivery room. What a magical place. The place was about the size of a hotel room, with a nice-sized and comfortable couch, flat screen TV a spacious shower, and…oh yeah that bed where Gabrielle was actually going to deliver the baby. We were introduced to our new nurse, and I joked how if she was lucky, she’d be around to meet the cutest baby that ever graced the hospital. It was a corny joke, but I found the only way I could mask my fear and anxiety was cracking jokes. Humor often served as my defense mechanism and that day was no exception.
They hooked her up to an IV and started giving her a drug called Pitocin. Of course I had to pull out The Google again on that one. Pitocin is basically a synthetic hormone that makes your body think you’re in labor thus moves it further along. I don’t quite understand the mathematics, but on the IV monitor, the amounts that she was given was gradually being increased in increments of 2. The higher number/dosage, the more intense the contractions became.
As we headed into the evening, our parents swung by and visited as we all began to prepare for the big event. All of us were still shocked that we were in this situation two weeks earlier than expected, but the most surprising was that Gabrielle was barely in any pain. She was definitely having contractions (I learned you can actually follow along with them on the monitor), but they were small enough at this point that she often didn’t realize she was having one. That generally meant that we were still a long way from delivery, so we said our goodbyes and tried to get some sleep. It wouldn’t be for several weeks before I could sleep that long.
Gabrielle’s labor throughout Saturday morning was the same as the day before. We reached the 24 hour mark with barely any progress. She was still only a couple centimeters dilated and the needle had barely nudged. Still, even upping her dosage up to 20 (whatever that actually meant), wasn’t doing a lot. So when “S” came in around 2pm, they said they wanted to test out another trick: breaking her water.
Turns out that like everything else involving her labor, her water breaking could be controlled. Within minutes they had broken it. And they were not kidding: things really started to pick up from there. Gabrielle’s contractions soon started to intensify, and watching them on the monitor became a brutal exercise in time. For a couple hours, she persisted through them, sometimes gritting her teeth through a contraction, other times contorting her body in unusual positions, and nearly every time gripping my hand. And between each contraction, she would complain to me how hungry she was.
By 5pm, Gabrielle decided to quit fighting the pain and called for the epidural. Thankfully for her that didn’t require any tough moral decision. She joked for nine months “Dude I don’t care about going natural, give me that f—king needle”, but she wanted to delay it as long as she could. Knowing she’d get some relief relieved me too, and I was thrilled when the anesthesiologist walked into our room to administer it for her.
Dr. W. was amazing. Not too much older than us, she exhibited a certain comfort in the way she spoke to Gabrielle. She treated her like less of a patient and more a person who was just hanging out with us. That’s not to say she wasn’t an astute professional, but I sensed that her demeanor was no accident. It instantly calmed the room.
As she explained the introductions – Gabrielle would lean forward on the bed, I’d sit directly in front of her – she also answered our questions, and took the opportunity to explain the misconceptions about epidurals and anesthesia in general.
“Yeah, and I bet that awful Hayden Christiansen movie didn’t help your profession, huh?”
“What movie?” she asked.
“Mike for the love of God-“ Gabrielle interjected, but it was too late. I had already pulled up the movie poster on my phone and was explaining the film’s awful plot and how it was only made because it was during that peak Jessica Alba phase. By the time I was explaining the third act twist, Dr. W. had pulled out the needle and administered the test dose. I was sure to use Gabrielle’s body to obstruct the view, otherwise they’d have to administer their smelling salts on me.
Within minutes the medicine had kicked in and Gabrielle was starting to return to normal. The news relieved everyone involved (by now our parents had come back to the hospital). But something wasn’t right. Less than an hour later, the pain had come back, almost as strong as it was before. She kept pushing that button (which releases more medicine) but the net effect was basically zero.
“Is this normal?” I asked “S”.
She smiled and tried to remain neutral before she eventually admitted that it was uncommon for an epidural to basically “miss” like this. They continued to monitor her for several hours before bringing a different anesthesiologist. They tried the same procedure again. Again, I sat at the foot of the bed, gripping my wife’s hand and telling her she was going to be ok. I wasn’t cracking jokes this time. But again, nothing seemed to work.
By now it was nearly midnight, and the halls of the hospital were quiet absent the continuing beeps of the monitor. Nurses and midwives would occasionally check on her, but it was mostly just the two of us. She had reached about 6 centimeters, and we were told that the normal progression at this point was about 1 centimeter per hour. So with every painful contraction, I would hold her hand and tell her she only had a few more of these before she would be able to push, and this baby would be born, and the pain would go away and would be replaced by the bliss of our new child.
Deep down I felt like I was lying. Because even though I certainly was not a doctor, something in my gut told me that her labor was not going to progress the way it needed to.
The rest of the night offered more of the same. Painful contraction after painful contraction. By this point, Gabrielle had tried every possible maneuver to help alleviate the intensity but nothing did the trick. Her reaction now was to simply moan in pain with her eyes closed until she was past the peak. Each contraction killed me because I knew there was no way I could shift the pain from her onto me. But watching the person you love in agonizing pain is worse than any kind of pain you could ever experience yourself.
But millions of women give birth every year Mike. So what! I’m sure millions of people pass kidney stones every single day, but it’s certainly not comforting in the moment to remind someone of statistics.
The rest of the night (and my timeline of the events) was a complete blur. At some point (4am maybe?) the midwife entered.
“Listen,” she began, “one of the things we can do is decrease the amount of Pitocin you’re receiving, which will make these contractions easier to bear.”
Do it! I nearly screamed in my seat.
“But you should realize that this is only temporary. It will make these contractions easier, but your labor effectively stops progressing.” Yet that’s what was eventually agreed upon. The pain was just too much for Gabrielle and she needed the relief.
The sun came up a couple of hours later. We had now passed the 44 hour mark. At one point, during one of Gabrielle’s most painful contractions, Dr. W. entered the room again, confused.
“Why am I hearing screams from this room? I should not be hearing screams from this room.”
Soon two anesthesiologists, two nurses, a midwife, and an OBGYN huddled around my wife’s bed, staring at her. This anomaly of a patient. Phrases like “I just don’t understand…” and “This is so rare” kept flying out of their mouths. To have not one, not two epidurals completely miss was extremely uncommon, so they suggested adminstering what was effectively a spinal tap. Dr. W was back in the hot seat, and this time, they upped the dosage.
“I’m giving you half of what we give our c-section patients, so this has gotta work.”
So once again, I hovered in front of her, holding her hands as she shut her eyes and prayed that this epidural would finally click. And while there may have been a temporary tease of relief for a few minutes, essentially, she was back to square one. The same pain as before – except this time, there was another complication.
Because they had slowed down the contractions a few hours earlier, she effectively had to restart from a previous mark. But nothing was happening. Her contractions – while still painful – were not progressing to the intensity that she needed to get to in order to reach the “pushing” stage. She was stuck between 8 and 9 centimeters, and, to use a horrific metaphor, her engine was out of steam.
By this point, Gabrielle was a physical and emotional trainwreck. It’d be a lie to say that I was thinking primarily of the baby at that point; personally, I just wanted her misery and anticipation to end. With only a couple hours left before entering Day 3, the midwife crouched over, inches from Gab’s face, which was covered with tears.
“Is it too late to have a c-section?” Gab weeped.
“That’s certainly a viable option,” she paused, before finishing. “You may only have an hour left of labor. Or you might have five. Or…it’s possible that your labor won’t proceed beyond this point.”
I’m sure most of my readers are probably scratching their heads, asking themselves “Why on Earth didn’t they say this before? Why did they
allow her to sit in labor for two full days!?”
Because that’s what Gab wanted. She had made it very clear from the get-go that a c-section was something she only wanted as a last resort. She recounted the stories from a couple personal friends who felt that they were pushed into a c-section too early. People sometimes forget that it’s a major abdominal surgery! But the midwives continually respected her wishes and only confirmed that option when she knew a traditional birth was becoming less and less likely.
“Just cut me open, I am desperate,” she said.
And that was that. While there were other c-sections scheduled on the docket, they bumped Gab’s up to be next. The doctors were all concerned about that latest dosage of medicine wearing off; even worse, they were worried that it’d be possible any additional medication wouldn’t work at all during the surgery. So within a half hour, they wheeled her into a surgery room, leaving me alone with a hospital gown, mask and little boots to cover your shoes.
That twenty minute wait felt like hours, as the room I’d spent two days watching my wife cry and moan in was now eerily quiet and empty. When a nurse finally came back and escorted me into the surgery room, I was instructed to close my eyes as I walked around the front of her body. I obliged, but I couldn’t help but notice the parade of doctors gathered around her midsection. They plopped me down on a chair next to Gabrielle, who was barely conscious.
“How long do you think this’ll take?” I asked Dr. W. a few minutes later, who stood behind Gabrielle’s head, controlling the flow of her medication.
“Can’t you hear?” she whispered. “Your baby is here.”
(keep reading below pictures)
In the movies, having a baby follows a typical pattern. The mother makes that one final push, the baby comes out, the doctor says “It’s a boy/girl!”, and the mother and father bask in bliss as they welcome their newest bundle of joy into their arms, and into their lives.
None of that happened with us.
You see, there’s nothing cinematic about C-section births. The mother, draped below the neck with a giant curtain while her stomach is literally being cut open, is barely conscious. The father’s only view is the mother’s head, and must depend on the other senses to follow along with the process. There’s little to no communication at the back end of that sheet. At that point, the mother is not part of any experience. She’s a patient.
I remember hearing a cry. This is it, I remember thinking, it’s over. When I look back on that moment, I realize that I had it completely backwards: it was just beginning. But then, even when I could hear the baby’s cry a few feet away from me, I couldn’t take my eyes off of Gabrielle. I wanted to know she was ok. I wanted to know if the most painful experience of her life had finally ended. Thankfully it had, but she was hardly awake. Those early moments waiting for my child to be groomed and weighed were spent alone.
“Does the father want to announce the sex?” I heard someone ask on the other side of the curtain.
“Yes,” I mumbled, barely loud enough for him to hear me. Suddenly a little opening was pulled down, just enough that I could see what was on the other side but not enough that I could see my wife cut open. There it was, this beautiful little baby entering the world, and the first thing its dad had to do was look for a winkie.
“It’s a boy,” I whispered to Gabrielle, though she only barely processed it. A minute later, the nurse handed him to me. That moment was surreal. I held him for only a few seconds though before I remembered someone else in the room deserved him much more than me. Since Gabrielle couldn’t turn her head, I held him so he and his mom were cheek to cheek. She cried a little more, and deep down I knew that the emotions she was feeling were ones I could never experience or even begin to describe.
I thanked everyone in the room before I was escorted out so they could begin Gab’s recovery. My role now was to announce to all of family members gathered in the waiting room whether it was a boy or girl. I’m grateful to my sister-in-law that we’ll forever have that moment on video.
A couple hours later, they moved us to the postpartum rooms. Unlike the labor and delivery room, this room was super tiny. Borderline claustrophobic. And considering we had already been at the hospital for two and a half days, knowing we’d have to spend three more in this tiny box didn’t sound comforting. And while the first several hours flew by since our family stuck around, eventually they left. That’s when we were forced to reckon with the concept that we were now parents and responsible for a new life.
The first night was terrible. In addition to the sheer pain from having major abdominal surgery, Gabrielle’s body had become so weak from nothing but a near-liquid diet for days that she had to have multiple blood transfusions. On top of that, she had to simultaneously learn how to nurse a baby. I personally felt the hospital put too much pressure on her to breastfeed, especially given her circumstances. Most of the nurses were wonderful, but a few scoffed with judgment when Gabrielle requested they take him to the nursery for a few hours with a bottle so she could get just a couple hours of sleep. Yes, it’s certainly true that breast milk contains nutrients and antibodies that formula can’t match, but considering the mental, physical and emotional anguish some mothers need to succeed (not to mention pure luck), it’s understandable that some choose formula.
Besides the constant feedings every two hours, what I’ll remember most from those early days is the crying, screaming, and pooping. I quickly lost any inhibitions about having baby shit all of my hands and arms as long as it meant that he was seconds closer to being quiet. I also learned early that having a boy meant you were likely going to get peed on, as I did on day three.
But soon our time in the hospital was up and we were discharged. “You take it from here”, they basically said. Considering that in order to operate a motor vehicle I had to take two separate tests, it’s amazing they just…let us keep the baby? No proof required that we were even remotely capable of handling this thing with care? So we went home, and were on our own. That’s when the true chaos began.
During the pregnancy, people would often joke “nothing can prepare you for this!” We would usually laugh it off, since by nature we were both very meticulous planners. She ensured the nursery was furnished and decked out, and I had all of the paperwork ready to open his 529 account. But none of that matters; you can plan, but you can’t truly prepare. It’s pure survival mode. The concept of a “good night’s sleep” goes out the window. Watching an episode of TV takes three hours when you factor in all of the crying fits, diaper changes, etc. No more dropping everything to go see a movie, or randomly opening my laptop and writing. Yet we did what most parents do: took things one day at a time and adapted.
Not that it's been easy. While most people have a sensible grip on the “baby blues”, I don’t think enough realize that many of the new mothers you may see smiling in public are secretly battling anxiety and depression in private. That certainly was the case with Gabrielle. Even with a revolving door of visitors, that anticipation of knowing that eventually she’d be by herself often pushed her to tears. Sometimes the happiest moment of her day was when I returned home from work so she could go for a walk and take a moment for herself. When people would kindly ask her “how are you doing?” she would pull no punches and tell them that every day was a struggle and she hoped the anti-depression medicine her doctor prescribed would help make it more manageable. She would explain the conflicting emotions of knowing millions of other people were experiencing these same feelings even though she never felt more alone. Her message to new moms: those first six weeks are the hardest, but I promise that things improve.
So what have I learned? How do I view my new life…and my new role as a father?
It’s no secret that I was reluctant to have children. No sense in rehashing, but the primary reason is that I don’t have much faith in where this world will be 20, 50, 100 years from now. I differ in the collective thinking that life is a gift. It’s also a challenge. Choosing to have children means you are effectively choosing to subject them to not only the joys and blessings of life, but also the horrors and pitfalls. Yet we still made the decision to have one, and when I first held my son, I understood why.
There’s an unmeasurable and unconditional love that you feel for your child the moment they come into this world. Even when that love is often wrapped in a thick blanket of worry, fear, frustration, anger, and sadness. Especially in those early weeks, those emotions tend to dominate. You feel helpless when your baby is crying and it seems there’s nothing you can do to stop it. You feel guilty when it comes down with a nasty cold they contracted from you. You feel worry as you spend your waking nights listing all of the obstacles that child will face, yet at the same time hate yourself for not constantly being thankful for the fact that so many other parents and children have it a thousand times harder than you ever will.
Recently, I revisited this exert from a blog post I wrote in 2015:
“I’m not among those who believe that you suddenly transform from flawed human being to savior of the world because you’ve decided to have a baby. I also loathe the viewpoint that people who choose not to have children are somehow selfish or less-charitable than the couple down the street with a family of five. It’s such a flawed mindset, the idea that our personal worth is determined simply by whether or not we choose to procreate. People can still lead ultimately fulfilling lives and contribute to the better of society without bringing another life into it…Yes, I’m simplifying the realities of having children, but some out there may choose an alternative path to parenting, and that does not make their goals any less valid or their struggles any less legitimate.”
Those sentiments haven’t changed, and I’m happy that becoming a father hasn’t meant abandoning my earlier beliefs and values. In many ways, our entire life has been thrown upside down, but I’d like to think I’m the same person I was before. And while Gabrielle is a loving, nurturing and caring mother, being a great mom just adds to the list of things I already loved about her. We both promised each other that having this baby will never mean that we neglect our partnership, or our individuality. Those things are too important to us. It’s a promise we both intend to keep.
Lately, at night, I'll lay my son up against my knees and sway him back and forth. He seems to like that. He now stares at me and smiles, the first sign that he recognizes and is comfortable with me. Maybe he even loves me. So I smile back, knowing that deep down, this kid is going to have a good heart. He comes from a loving family, and his mom and dad are going to raise him to treat other people with kindness, dignity and respect. So despite the many obstacles he'll surely face in the future, I can take a little bit of comfort knowing that maybe this little angel can be a beacon of light in a world too often full of darkness.
Like I said, having a baby is not like it is in the movies. But that’s ok. I wouldn’t want it any other way.
None of that happened with us.
You see, there’s nothing cinematic about C-section births. The mother, draped below the neck with a giant curtain while her stomach is literally being cut open, is barely conscious. The father’s only view is the mother’s head, and must depend on the other senses to follow along with the process. There’s little to no communication at the back end of that sheet. At that point, the mother is not part of any experience. She’s a patient.
I remember hearing a cry. This is it, I remember thinking, it’s over. When I look back on that moment, I realize that I had it completely backwards: it was just beginning. But then, even when I could hear the baby’s cry a few feet away from me, I couldn’t take my eyes off of Gabrielle. I wanted to know she was ok. I wanted to know if the most painful experience of her life had finally ended. Thankfully it had, but she was hardly awake. Those early moments waiting for my child to be groomed and weighed were spent alone.
“Does the father want to announce the sex?” I heard someone ask on the other side of the curtain.
“Yes,” I mumbled, barely loud enough for him to hear me. Suddenly a little opening was pulled down, just enough that I could see what was on the other side but not enough that I could see my wife cut open. There it was, this beautiful little baby entering the world, and the first thing its dad had to do was look for a winkie.
“It’s a boy,” I whispered to Gabrielle, though she only barely processed it. A minute later, the nurse handed him to me. That moment was surreal. I held him for only a few seconds though before I remembered someone else in the room deserved him much more than me. Since Gabrielle couldn’t turn her head, I held him so he and his mom were cheek to cheek. She cried a little more, and deep down I knew that the emotions she was feeling were ones I could never experience or even begin to describe.
I thanked everyone in the room before I was escorted out so they could begin Gab’s recovery. My role now was to announce to all of family members gathered in the waiting room whether it was a boy or girl. I’m grateful to my sister-in-law that we’ll forever have that moment on video.
A couple hours later, they moved us to the postpartum rooms. Unlike the labor and delivery room, this room was super tiny. Borderline claustrophobic. And considering we had already been at the hospital for two and a half days, knowing we’d have to spend three more in this tiny box didn’t sound comforting. And while the first several hours flew by since our family stuck around, eventually they left. That’s when we were forced to reckon with the concept that we were now parents and responsible for a new life.
The first night was terrible. In addition to the sheer pain from having major abdominal surgery, Gabrielle’s body had become so weak from nothing but a near-liquid diet for days that she had to have multiple blood transfusions. On top of that, she had to simultaneously learn how to nurse a baby. I personally felt the hospital put too much pressure on her to breastfeed, especially given her circumstances. Most of the nurses were wonderful, but a few scoffed with judgment when Gabrielle requested they take him to the nursery for a few hours with a bottle so she could get just a couple hours of sleep. Yes, it’s certainly true that breast milk contains nutrients and antibodies that formula can’t match, but considering the mental, physical and emotional anguish some mothers need to succeed (not to mention pure luck), it’s understandable that some choose formula.
Besides the constant feedings every two hours, what I’ll remember most from those early days is the crying, screaming, and pooping. I quickly lost any inhibitions about having baby shit all of my hands and arms as long as it meant that he was seconds closer to being quiet. I also learned early that having a boy meant you were likely going to get peed on, as I did on day three.
But soon our time in the hospital was up and we were discharged. “You take it from here”, they basically said. Considering that in order to operate a motor vehicle I had to take two separate tests, it’s amazing they just…let us keep the baby? No proof required that we were even remotely capable of handling this thing with care? So we went home, and were on our own. That’s when the true chaos began.
During the pregnancy, people would often joke “nothing can prepare you for this!” We would usually laugh it off, since by nature we were both very meticulous planners. She ensured the nursery was furnished and decked out, and I had all of the paperwork ready to open his 529 account. But none of that matters; you can plan, but you can’t truly prepare. It’s pure survival mode. The concept of a “good night’s sleep” goes out the window. Watching an episode of TV takes three hours when you factor in all of the crying fits, diaper changes, etc. No more dropping everything to go see a movie, or randomly opening my laptop and writing. Yet we did what most parents do: took things one day at a time and adapted.
Not that it's been easy. While most people have a sensible grip on the “baby blues”, I don’t think enough realize that many of the new mothers you may see smiling in public are secretly battling anxiety and depression in private. That certainly was the case with Gabrielle. Even with a revolving door of visitors, that anticipation of knowing that eventually she’d be by herself often pushed her to tears. Sometimes the happiest moment of her day was when I returned home from work so she could go for a walk and take a moment for herself. When people would kindly ask her “how are you doing?” she would pull no punches and tell them that every day was a struggle and she hoped the anti-depression medicine her doctor prescribed would help make it more manageable. She would explain the conflicting emotions of knowing millions of other people were experiencing these same feelings even though she never felt more alone. Her message to new moms: those first six weeks are the hardest, but I promise that things improve.
So what have I learned? How do I view my new life…and my new role as a father?
It’s no secret that I was reluctant to have children. No sense in rehashing, but the primary reason is that I don’t have much faith in where this world will be 20, 50, 100 years from now. I differ in the collective thinking that life is a gift. It’s also a challenge. Choosing to have children means you are effectively choosing to subject them to not only the joys and blessings of life, but also the horrors and pitfalls. Yet we still made the decision to have one, and when I first held my son, I understood why.
There’s an unmeasurable and unconditional love that you feel for your child the moment they come into this world. Even when that love is often wrapped in a thick blanket of worry, fear, frustration, anger, and sadness. Especially in those early weeks, those emotions tend to dominate. You feel helpless when your baby is crying and it seems there’s nothing you can do to stop it. You feel guilty when it comes down with a nasty cold they contracted from you. You feel worry as you spend your waking nights listing all of the obstacles that child will face, yet at the same time hate yourself for not constantly being thankful for the fact that so many other parents and children have it a thousand times harder than you ever will.
Recently, I revisited this exert from a blog post I wrote in 2015:
“I’m not among those who believe that you suddenly transform from flawed human being to savior of the world because you’ve decided to have a baby. I also loathe the viewpoint that people who choose not to have children are somehow selfish or less-charitable than the couple down the street with a family of five. It’s such a flawed mindset, the idea that our personal worth is determined simply by whether or not we choose to procreate. People can still lead ultimately fulfilling lives and contribute to the better of society without bringing another life into it…Yes, I’m simplifying the realities of having children, but some out there may choose an alternative path to parenting, and that does not make their goals any less valid or their struggles any less legitimate.”
Those sentiments haven’t changed, and I’m happy that becoming a father hasn’t meant abandoning my earlier beliefs and values. In many ways, our entire life has been thrown upside down, but I’d like to think I’m the same person I was before. And while Gabrielle is a loving, nurturing and caring mother, being a great mom just adds to the list of things I already loved about her. We both promised each other that having this baby will never mean that we neglect our partnership, or our individuality. Those things are too important to us. It’s a promise we both intend to keep.
Lately, at night, I'll lay my son up against my knees and sway him back and forth. He seems to like that. He now stares at me and smiles, the first sign that he recognizes and is comfortable with me. Maybe he even loves me. So I smile back, knowing that deep down, this kid is going to have a good heart. He comes from a loving family, and his mom and dad are going to raise him to treat other people with kindness, dignity and respect. So despite the many obstacles he'll surely face in the future, I can take a little bit of comfort knowing that maybe this little angel can be a beacon of light in a world too often full of darkness.
Like I said, having a baby is not like it is in the movies. But that’s ok. I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Bringing In Baby - A Writer's Response to the Biggest News of His Life
March 16, 2017
"It should be about five minutes before it-"
Her words cut off mid-sentence, as we stared down at the little plastic white stick, eyeing the two vertical pink lines that had instantly appeared. Though the font was small, the word PREGNANT might as well have been flashing in bright, blinking neon letters. For a while, we just stood in silence over the bathroom sink, both of us perhaps remembering my wife’s insistence, a few hours earlier, "I know my body. There's a zero percent chance I'm pregnant."
It had actually been me who encouraged her to swing by the pharmacy and pick up one of those over-the-counter pregnancy tests. Because while I’d stack up my wife’s confidence against anyone’s, I had this weird inkling in the back of my mind that, despite the extremely slim odds, there just might be a new family member growing in Gabrielle’s tummy. We had just begun operating in that murky area between "trying" and "seeing what happens", and my inkling had persisted for weeks. Turns out, as I realized at that exact moment, my gut had been right.
Looking back, I wish I'd rehearsed my reaction a little bit more. But it’s difficult for anything other than a genuine response to emerge in such a spontaneous, significant moment. And that genuine response – not an “oh my god!” excitement or an “oh shit!” panic – was pure shock. I stood there, frozen, shaking, realizing that this exact moment marked a turning point in my life from which I could never turn back. I had always known this moment might happen, but it was something I’d only thought about conceptually. Gabrielle, noticing my emotional rollercoaster, felt unsure how to react too. Within minutes my heart rate had returned to normal, and we were able to have a conversation, smile, laugh, cry, and even relish in the fear of what was in store for us.
Soon after, we told our immediate family and swore them all to secrecy until we reached the end of the first trimester. Everyone reacted with excitement. Talks of baby showers and diaper parties spread before the news even soaked in. Gabrielle certainly shared that enthusiasm, which makes perfect sense given that everyone who's ever met her can attest to the fact that she’d be thrilled at the thought of becoming a mother (and no doubt be a great one).
My experience, on the other hand, has been slightly different. For the past two months, I’ve spent a good bit of time both adjusting to and questioning the idea of becoming a parent. The “adjusting” part was to be expected, and certainly shared with Gab. Our house must change – do we need to turn our den into a nursery? Our finances will change – How do we trim some fat from our budget and stock away a few extra dollars a month? What else do we need to plan so that the moment Gab gives birth, we can hit the ground running? Consequently, I started working my way through What to Expect When You’re Expecting. It’s daunting.
The “questioning” part has been more personal. Primarily, I’ve been questioning the fact that, while excitement was certainly among the emotions I initially felt, it hadn’t overwhelmed me. Instead, my primary concerns were things that most people would consider “selfish.” What will happen to my writing? My freelancing? My ability to randomly take a weekend trip to New York City to visit a friend or write for a comedy event? Prospects about actually moving there? Will I need to give it all up? Would we need to take New York off the table? And then, when I’m not worrying about those things, I’m worrying about worrying about those things. Is it wrong that these questions have dominated my thought process since we found out the news? Is it wrong that I’ve been treating the pregnancy as less an exciting experience and more one that has inspired me, empowered me, frightened me, and reshaped me, all at the same time and all in different ways?
Looking back on my 2015 blog post on this subject (which stirred a good amount of discussion) I find that my thoughts and opinions haven't changed. I still believe the decision to have or to not have children remains highly personal and shouldn’t be judged or prodded by others. I still believe that public discussion of pregnancy should be approached with great caution, given the hidden struggles so many prospective parents face. I still don’t believe that having a child is a “miracle,” because that dilutes the value of the choices we make individually and as a unit. And I still believe that this pregnancy should be seen as our unique and distinct choice, not simply as an inevitable consequence of the marriage vows we took five years ago.
Yet now that I’m faced with the reality of bringing a child into the world, I recognize that my essay from two years ago left out one big, important topic: fear. The political climate scares me. I read the newspaper every day, knowing we’re heading down a scary path that makes me question what kind of world the baby will be entering. I’m scared of the real climate, and the fact that we’re handing the next generation an Earth in much worse shape with every passing day and leaving it up to them (if it’s not already too late) to reverse the trend. The possibility of automation displacing our workforce and disrupting our global economy frightens me to death. Gabrielle (and many others) jokingly dismiss me as being an alarmist, but technology is moving too fast, and one day I’m going to have to explain to our child that the world will soon function without needing as many humans as it used to, and that it’ll be lucky to find a firm footing. This baby is only the size of an apricot, and already we’re shouldering it with an enormous amount of responsibility.
Then there are the nights when I’m excited, and I find it difficult to fall asleep because I’m smiling so much. I’m noticing these nights are becoming more frequent. There are so many different things I’m looking forward to teaching my future child. I can teach him or her how to treat others with respect, how to behave and present themselves in public, how to exhibit self-care in all areas of life. I can teach him about the world, and how every country and culture offers something worth learning from. I can also teach him how to manage his finances (borne from years and years of documenting every major and minor transaction into a consolidated Excel spreadsheet). My tendency to be over prepared positions me well to teach my child to approach life with just the appropriate amount of caution that he can live life happily but not carelessly.
More than what I can teach my child, however, I’m excited about what I can show them . . . which brings me back to my writing. If my daughter is confronted by childhood bullies, I'll show her Lex's struggle with courage and independence in The Shortcut, and why it’s ok for strong teenage girls to defy stereotypical norms. If she loses confidence in achieving her goals, and feels nothing but despair, I’ll point to Maya’s resistance against her doomed fate in The Lavender Run, and how she overcame even the most dangerous of circumstances. If my son struggles with perception and living up to false expectations, I’ll show him Gala, and how putting those you love on pedestals not only stunts your own growth but unfairly maligns theirs. And if he’s unsure how to pursue life after college, I'll show him how Jass Dietrich faced similar struggles in Miss Mezzanine, and how in many ways that little book I wrote when I was 27 was just a manifestation of all the worries that plagued his ole' dad.
These projects – both the big and the small ones – have all stuck with me. Each, in its own separate way, reflected how the world influenced me at that time, and my writing has often been my vessel to try and explain how. Because of that, now more than ever, writing these imaginary characters and placing them in imaginary worlds feels like a duty, and not something I can simply give up. With each piece of writing, I’m not only trying to grow as a person and an artist, but I’m also placing a bit of myself into a time capsule for my child to discover one day, when the time is right. In a way, it may be the best way for them to learn who their father truly is.
And while their particular passion in my life may differ from my own, I look forward to telling them one day: “You are the main character in your universe. And you will be able to write your own story too.”
"It should be about five minutes before it-"
Her words cut off mid-sentence, as we stared down at the little plastic white stick, eyeing the two vertical pink lines that had instantly appeared. Though the font was small, the word PREGNANT might as well have been flashing in bright, blinking neon letters. For a while, we just stood in silence over the bathroom sink, both of us perhaps remembering my wife’s insistence, a few hours earlier, "I know my body. There's a zero percent chance I'm pregnant."
It had actually been me who encouraged her to swing by the pharmacy and pick up one of those over-the-counter pregnancy tests. Because while I’d stack up my wife’s confidence against anyone’s, I had this weird inkling in the back of my mind that, despite the extremely slim odds, there just might be a new family member growing in Gabrielle’s tummy. We had just begun operating in that murky area between "trying" and "seeing what happens", and my inkling had persisted for weeks. Turns out, as I realized at that exact moment, my gut had been right.
Looking back, I wish I'd rehearsed my reaction a little bit more. But it’s difficult for anything other than a genuine response to emerge in such a spontaneous, significant moment. And that genuine response – not an “oh my god!” excitement or an “oh shit!” panic – was pure shock. I stood there, frozen, shaking, realizing that this exact moment marked a turning point in my life from which I could never turn back. I had always known this moment might happen, but it was something I’d only thought about conceptually. Gabrielle, noticing my emotional rollercoaster, felt unsure how to react too. Within minutes my heart rate had returned to normal, and we were able to have a conversation, smile, laugh, cry, and even relish in the fear of what was in store for us.
Soon after, we told our immediate family and swore them all to secrecy until we reached the end of the first trimester. Everyone reacted with excitement. Talks of baby showers and diaper parties spread before the news even soaked in. Gabrielle certainly shared that enthusiasm, which makes perfect sense given that everyone who's ever met her can attest to the fact that she’d be thrilled at the thought of becoming a mother (and no doubt be a great one).
My experience, on the other hand, has been slightly different. For the past two months, I’ve spent a good bit of time both adjusting to and questioning the idea of becoming a parent. The “adjusting” part was to be expected, and certainly shared with Gab. Our house must change – do we need to turn our den into a nursery? Our finances will change – How do we trim some fat from our budget and stock away a few extra dollars a month? What else do we need to plan so that the moment Gab gives birth, we can hit the ground running? Consequently, I started working my way through What to Expect When You’re Expecting. It’s daunting.
The “questioning” part has been more personal. Primarily, I’ve been questioning the fact that, while excitement was certainly among the emotions I initially felt, it hadn’t overwhelmed me. Instead, my primary concerns were things that most people would consider “selfish.” What will happen to my writing? My freelancing? My ability to randomly take a weekend trip to New York City to visit a friend or write for a comedy event? Prospects about actually moving there? Will I need to give it all up? Would we need to take New York off the table? And then, when I’m not worrying about those things, I’m worrying about worrying about those things. Is it wrong that these questions have dominated my thought process since we found out the news? Is it wrong that I’ve been treating the pregnancy as less an exciting experience and more one that has inspired me, empowered me, frightened me, and reshaped me, all at the same time and all in different ways?
Looking back on my 2015 blog post on this subject (which stirred a good amount of discussion) I find that my thoughts and opinions haven't changed. I still believe the decision to have or to not have children remains highly personal and shouldn’t be judged or prodded by others. I still believe that public discussion of pregnancy should be approached with great caution, given the hidden struggles so many prospective parents face. I still don’t believe that having a child is a “miracle,” because that dilutes the value of the choices we make individually and as a unit. And I still believe that this pregnancy should be seen as our unique and distinct choice, not simply as an inevitable consequence of the marriage vows we took five years ago.
Yet now that I’m faced with the reality of bringing a child into the world, I recognize that my essay from two years ago left out one big, important topic: fear. The political climate scares me. I read the newspaper every day, knowing we’re heading down a scary path that makes me question what kind of world the baby will be entering. I’m scared of the real climate, and the fact that we’re handing the next generation an Earth in much worse shape with every passing day and leaving it up to them (if it’s not already too late) to reverse the trend. The possibility of automation displacing our workforce and disrupting our global economy frightens me to death. Gabrielle (and many others) jokingly dismiss me as being an alarmist, but technology is moving too fast, and one day I’m going to have to explain to our child that the world will soon function without needing as many humans as it used to, and that it’ll be lucky to find a firm footing. This baby is only the size of an apricot, and already we’re shouldering it with an enormous amount of responsibility.
Then there are the nights when I’m excited, and I find it difficult to fall asleep because I’m smiling so much. I’m noticing these nights are becoming more frequent. There are so many different things I’m looking forward to teaching my future child. I can teach him or her how to treat others with respect, how to behave and present themselves in public, how to exhibit self-care in all areas of life. I can teach him about the world, and how every country and culture offers something worth learning from. I can also teach him how to manage his finances (borne from years and years of documenting every major and minor transaction into a consolidated Excel spreadsheet). My tendency to be over prepared positions me well to teach my child to approach life with just the appropriate amount of caution that he can live life happily but not carelessly.
More than what I can teach my child, however, I’m excited about what I can show them . . . which brings me back to my writing. If my daughter is confronted by childhood bullies, I'll show her Lex's struggle with courage and independence in The Shortcut, and why it’s ok for strong teenage girls to defy stereotypical norms. If she loses confidence in achieving her goals, and feels nothing but despair, I’ll point to Maya’s resistance against her doomed fate in The Lavender Run, and how she overcame even the most dangerous of circumstances. If my son struggles with perception and living up to false expectations, I’ll show him Gala, and how putting those you love on pedestals not only stunts your own growth but unfairly maligns theirs. And if he’s unsure how to pursue life after college, I'll show him how Jass Dietrich faced similar struggles in Miss Mezzanine, and how in many ways that little book I wrote when I was 27 was just a manifestation of all the worries that plagued his ole' dad.
These projects – both the big and the small ones – have all stuck with me. Each, in its own separate way, reflected how the world influenced me at that time, and my writing has often been my vessel to try and explain how. Because of that, now more than ever, writing these imaginary characters and placing them in imaginary worlds feels like a duty, and not something I can simply give up. With each piece of writing, I’m not only trying to grow as a person and an artist, but I’m also placing a bit of myself into a time capsule for my child to discover one day, when the time is right. In a way, it may be the best way for them to learn who their father truly is.
And while their particular passion in my life may differ from my own, I look forward to telling them one day: “You are the main character in your universe. And you will be able to write your own story too.”
Pie Slices
October 7, 2016
“If only I had more time. . . .”
“There are only so many hours in a day. . . .”
“There’s just too much on my plate. . . .”
Phrases like those accurately capture the mentality that so many of us experience when it comes to adding more work (or even play) to our densely packed schedules. When you combine sitting for hours on end behind a desk at your day job, commuting through nasty traffic to and from said day job, completing required household chores, cooking to make sure you don’t starve, and exercising to make sure you don’t die, there’s only so much mental capacity left. That limited mental capacity is what I sometimes call “Brain Pie.” Simply put, brain pie is any mental output we can generate, whether that means the simple day-to-day functions of survival, or the more creative things like writing books and scripts or making movies. And while the availability of this output is never-ending and replenishes both quickly and frequently, it’s valid to say that, on any given day, there is often only a limited supply available—which means that most of us guard our creative pie jealously. And for good reason.
For writers (or any person working in a creative outlet), our natural response is to apply the majority of our available creative brain pie to improving our own craft. Maybe a slice or two will go to writing a current draft, a slice might go to reading sold scripts, another slice can be applied to editing previous pages. By the time the day or week is finished, however, there’s hardly a piece left for anything else. It’s why we say we’ll “get around” to writing something extra, but we end up watching Family Feud reruns, instead. Cranking out creative capital can be draining.
However, over time I have seen an amazing “return on investment” to those who set aside at least a portion of their creative brain pie for helping peers. Sometimes it’s something as simple as retweeting a link to a friend’s latest work to help expand their audience; other times it’s spending an hour reading an early draft of someone’s short story and providing feedback. But that tiny boost of encouragement (or criticism) may trigger something in that person to push through a difficult writing problem, or a funk in creativity. And maybe that trigger then turns into an epiphany. And maybe that epiphany directly results in better work, or more exposure, or more opportunities. These perceived benefits may not be predicated or even tangible, but they don’t exist in a vacuum, either.
With our closest friends, this reciprocity is common and expected, but I think we sometimes lose sight of the value that comes from extending these simple gestures of good faith to acquaintances, or, even more infrequently, to strangers. To understand what I mean, try flipping the script. Having a family member or close friend gush over a recent piece of writing can feel rewarding, sure, but sometimes that praise can pale in comparison to a fellow writer’s simply saying “Nice job” or even an anonymous reader giving the piece a thumb’s up or a five-star review. Because the fellow writer knows how you slaved over that piece of writing—they’ve been there, too. And the stranger didn’t owe you anything, yet they took the time to tell you, the author, the screenwriter, the director, that they liked your work. Praise, especially when it’s unexpected, creates long-lasting positive reinforcements that motivate you to continue improving the quality of your work. Or at least that’s what I've seen from personal experience.
And this level of encouragement doesn’t change, despite how popular we become or how many Twitter followers we garner. While some artists are more reclusive and protective of their output, I’d argue that the majority are anxious enough to share their art that they’re willing to sacrifice perfection for the sake of expediency. We’re not shooting for a perfect score, but we’d love to pass the exam. We don't crave attention for our work, but rather the acknowledgement that our work could be worthy of attention. And that’s why an unexpected look at someone else’s art (whether that means checking out the trailer to their new short film, or browsing over their pilot) and the smallest “pat on the back” can create long-lasting positive effects.
So yes, by all means, watch those Family Feud episodes from time to time, and then get back honing your craft and producing (and promoting) your own creative work. I wouldn’t dare suggest otherwise. But I challenge you to keep a lookout for creative works from some of your surrounding peers, both in person and on social media. And if an opportunity presents itself to share a piece of your creative brain pie, be confident that your gesture could mean the difference between someone soldiering forward and improving their craft, or that same someone giving up and melting into the oblivion of would-have, could-have, should-have.
Bon appetite.
“If only I had more time. . . .”
“There are only so many hours in a day. . . .”
“There’s just too much on my plate. . . .”
Phrases like those accurately capture the mentality that so many of us experience when it comes to adding more work (or even play) to our densely packed schedules. When you combine sitting for hours on end behind a desk at your day job, commuting through nasty traffic to and from said day job, completing required household chores, cooking to make sure you don’t starve, and exercising to make sure you don’t die, there’s only so much mental capacity left. That limited mental capacity is what I sometimes call “Brain Pie.” Simply put, brain pie is any mental output we can generate, whether that means the simple day-to-day functions of survival, or the more creative things like writing books and scripts or making movies. And while the availability of this output is never-ending and replenishes both quickly and frequently, it’s valid to say that, on any given day, there is often only a limited supply available—which means that most of us guard our creative pie jealously. And for good reason.
For writers (or any person working in a creative outlet), our natural response is to apply the majority of our available creative brain pie to improving our own craft. Maybe a slice or two will go to writing a current draft, a slice might go to reading sold scripts, another slice can be applied to editing previous pages. By the time the day or week is finished, however, there’s hardly a piece left for anything else. It’s why we say we’ll “get around” to writing something extra, but we end up watching Family Feud reruns, instead. Cranking out creative capital can be draining.
However, over time I have seen an amazing “return on investment” to those who set aside at least a portion of their creative brain pie for helping peers. Sometimes it’s something as simple as retweeting a link to a friend’s latest work to help expand their audience; other times it’s spending an hour reading an early draft of someone’s short story and providing feedback. But that tiny boost of encouragement (or criticism) may trigger something in that person to push through a difficult writing problem, or a funk in creativity. And maybe that trigger then turns into an epiphany. And maybe that epiphany directly results in better work, or more exposure, or more opportunities. These perceived benefits may not be predicated or even tangible, but they don’t exist in a vacuum, either.
With our closest friends, this reciprocity is common and expected, but I think we sometimes lose sight of the value that comes from extending these simple gestures of good faith to acquaintances, or, even more infrequently, to strangers. To understand what I mean, try flipping the script. Having a family member or close friend gush over a recent piece of writing can feel rewarding, sure, but sometimes that praise can pale in comparison to a fellow writer’s simply saying “Nice job” or even an anonymous reader giving the piece a thumb’s up or a five-star review. Because the fellow writer knows how you slaved over that piece of writing—they’ve been there, too. And the stranger didn’t owe you anything, yet they took the time to tell you, the author, the screenwriter, the director, that they liked your work. Praise, especially when it’s unexpected, creates long-lasting positive reinforcements that motivate you to continue improving the quality of your work. Or at least that’s what I've seen from personal experience.
And this level of encouragement doesn’t change, despite how popular we become or how many Twitter followers we garner. While some artists are more reclusive and protective of their output, I’d argue that the majority are anxious enough to share their art that they’re willing to sacrifice perfection for the sake of expediency. We’re not shooting for a perfect score, but we’d love to pass the exam. We don't crave attention for our work, but rather the acknowledgement that our work could be worthy of attention. And that’s why an unexpected look at someone else’s art (whether that means checking out the trailer to their new short film, or browsing over their pilot) and the smallest “pat on the back” can create long-lasting positive effects.
So yes, by all means, watch those Family Feud episodes from time to time, and then get back honing your craft and producing (and promoting) your own creative work. I wouldn’t dare suggest otherwise. But I challenge you to keep a lookout for creative works from some of your surrounding peers, both in person and on social media. And if an opportunity presents itself to share a piece of your creative brain pie, be confident that your gesture could mean the difference between someone soldiering forward and improving their craft, or that same someone giving up and melting into the oblivion of would-have, could-have, should-have.
Bon appetite.
Discovering Your Board of Directors and Learning to Embrace Change
June 6, 2016
Last month, I attended a networking event in Pittsburgh, where a prominent local executive addressed a group of 50 millennials on various tips for success. His speech covered everything from his personal career path to advice for becoming an active philanthropist. All of it was memorable, but one particular piece of advice really hit home: he suggested that everyone in the audience find their own personal “Board of Directors.” He said that we should identify a group of people (friends, colleagues, mentors) who care deeply for us, will look after our interests, help steer our career in the right direction, and provide us with honest insight—personal or professional—when it's needed most.
Since that presentation, I've taken time to identify which of my peers are truly on my “Board.” However, the more eye-opening discovery, especially given a recent turn of personal events, was the realization that some of my peers may consider me on their “Board,” and have, consequently, sought my advice—advice which I have suddenly begun to question.
I've recently made a big change in my life. Change is always scary, and facing the choice to pursue change vs. maintain the status quo was incredibly stressful. To try and manage that stress, I took that stereotypical path of writing down all of the pros and cons. The pros were tangible and easy enough to identify, but the cons—mostly concerning the unknown—were much more difficult to weigh. “What if I’m wrong?” or, “What if I fail?” came up, just like they always do, but there were also more personal questions, like, “What would it be like to stop interacting with the same people on a daily basis?” I’d start missing out on "How was your weekend?" stories, and our carefully forged relationships would likely suffer. How could I place a value on that? Eventually, after much soul-searching, I decided to take a chance on something new. However, the whole process made me start thinking about how I would have advised some of my friends and colleagues, had they approached me with the exact same choice.
The number of times we're faced with truly life-altering decisions is few and far between; the grand slams are usually hidden amidst a larger sea of base hits, so I tend to urge people to hit the ground ball and take the single instead of swinging for the fences. My advice is simple, practical, and involves staying the course far more often than exploring the unknown. "Don't buy that expensive car,” I’ll say, “contribute to your 401k instead." "Don't restart something new; master what you're already familiar with."
However, by nearly always erring on the side of caution, I've been doing a disservice to my friends and colleagues. I've taken a group of people with the wind at their back and urged them to lower their sails. I've poked a hole in their gumption when what they may have needed was full-fledged encouragement. It took facing a huge, scary, risk-filled opportunity in my own life to realize that my philosophy lacked the experience to back it up. And for that I'm sorry. If your gut is telling you to take that leap, take it. Step out of your comfort zone. Remember that while you can find success by remaining complacent, the heroes and icons we read about took big chances and landed on their feet. And when you receive advice to step back and be cautious, consider the source. Maybe they themselves are afraid of failing and don’t want to watch you, someone they care about, risk the same fate.
So find your Board of Directors. Trust that they won't purposely lead you in the wrong direction. But remember that they, too, can be flawed. That’s why, ultimately, you need to be a strong Chairman. Forge your own path, but don’t be afraid when it leads you in a different direction.
Last month, I attended a networking event in Pittsburgh, where a prominent local executive addressed a group of 50 millennials on various tips for success. His speech covered everything from his personal career path to advice for becoming an active philanthropist. All of it was memorable, but one particular piece of advice really hit home: he suggested that everyone in the audience find their own personal “Board of Directors.” He said that we should identify a group of people (friends, colleagues, mentors) who care deeply for us, will look after our interests, help steer our career in the right direction, and provide us with honest insight—personal or professional—when it's needed most.
Since that presentation, I've taken time to identify which of my peers are truly on my “Board.” However, the more eye-opening discovery, especially given a recent turn of personal events, was the realization that some of my peers may consider me on their “Board,” and have, consequently, sought my advice—advice which I have suddenly begun to question.
I've recently made a big change in my life. Change is always scary, and facing the choice to pursue change vs. maintain the status quo was incredibly stressful. To try and manage that stress, I took that stereotypical path of writing down all of the pros and cons. The pros were tangible and easy enough to identify, but the cons—mostly concerning the unknown—were much more difficult to weigh. “What if I’m wrong?” or, “What if I fail?” came up, just like they always do, but there were also more personal questions, like, “What would it be like to stop interacting with the same people on a daily basis?” I’d start missing out on "How was your weekend?" stories, and our carefully forged relationships would likely suffer. How could I place a value on that? Eventually, after much soul-searching, I decided to take a chance on something new. However, the whole process made me start thinking about how I would have advised some of my friends and colleagues, had they approached me with the exact same choice.
The number of times we're faced with truly life-altering decisions is few and far between; the grand slams are usually hidden amidst a larger sea of base hits, so I tend to urge people to hit the ground ball and take the single instead of swinging for the fences. My advice is simple, practical, and involves staying the course far more often than exploring the unknown. "Don't buy that expensive car,” I’ll say, “contribute to your 401k instead." "Don't restart something new; master what you're already familiar with."
However, by nearly always erring on the side of caution, I've been doing a disservice to my friends and colleagues. I've taken a group of people with the wind at their back and urged them to lower their sails. I've poked a hole in their gumption when what they may have needed was full-fledged encouragement. It took facing a huge, scary, risk-filled opportunity in my own life to realize that my philosophy lacked the experience to back it up. And for that I'm sorry. If your gut is telling you to take that leap, take it. Step out of your comfort zone. Remember that while you can find success by remaining complacent, the heroes and icons we read about took big chances and landed on their feet. And when you receive advice to step back and be cautious, consider the source. Maybe they themselves are afraid of failing and don’t want to watch you, someone they care about, risk the same fate.
So find your Board of Directors. Trust that they won't purposely lead you in the wrong direction. But remember that they, too, can be flawed. That’s why, ultimately, you need to be a strong Chairman. Forge your own path, but don’t be afraid when it leads you in a different direction.
Dear Mike - A Letter To My 20 Year-Old Self
January 28, 2016
Happy 20th birthday Mike!
Don't be alarmed by the return address. It’s just you … or at least a self-reflective version of you that’s on the cusp of turning 30. I felt it was necessary to send you this letter, not to warn you of any disasters or to urge you to change your future, but to try and infuse a little confidence in those moments of uncertainty you're bound to experience over the next decade. So without further exposition (which I know you hate), here are a few tidbits to tuck away into your subconscious during your twenties:
1. One of your most exciting post-college moments will be receiving your first paycheck. Crazy to think that someone will pay you to produce work with actual value. But before you even cash that check (er, direct deposit, but you don’t know what that means yet), you'll be pressured into putting a large chunk of it away: for a house, for retirement, for a car, for everything except the fun and games you’ve looked forward to in adulthood. You’ll reluctantly agree, but I can assure you that by the time you're 30, you'll be glad you didn't delay saving. You remember dad always saying, “Pay yourself first”? Listen to him. It’s good advice.
2. That writing itch you developed as a kid still won't go away. Your desire to tell stories, no matter the outlet, will feel like an addiction, so don't be afraid to scratch that itch. You'll shy away when people ask you about writing in person, but you'll relish the opportunity to dig into the next story once you’re home. Embrace that feeling, because it may not last forever. Believe it or not, the word "writer" will one day be part of your actual job description. So that English Writing degree isn't going to waste! And get this: you’ll even get paid to write jokes . . . on ESPN! Though don't get too excited—they cut all the good ones out. At least the first time.
3. Social Media, a phenomenon you are just starting to gauge, will soon dominate your (and everyone else's) world. It'll feel strange at first to publicly share so much of your life on the internet, but you’ll soon discover that social media is really a writer’s dream. It’s instant access to your audience in a way that you couldn’t have imagined. Thursdays in particular will be a fun time, and Phyllis will become iconic (trust me).
4. As a naïve college student (don’t take that the wrong way, but it’s true), you probably think you possess all the answers. While I can assure you that you’re wrong, what's worse is that this instinct won’t ever subside. It’s engraved in your personality, and people will make fun of your willingness to play the devil's advocate for any subject, no matter how ridiculous. Fortunately, you'll eventually begin to develop a bit more humility: an under-appreciated trait that has paid dividends in your life in more ways than one.
5. Remember that even in college your circle of relationships is still fairly small. Some of your best friends and inspirations haven’t even entered your life yet. So nurture those friendships that truly deserve it, but don’t be afraid to branch out and make new ones when opportunities present themselves. And that girl you've been dating for a few months now? Well, without getting into any details, let me just say that you'd be wise to treat her extremely well.
6. While your teen years helped to define your identity, your twenties will really shape your moral compass. Things like your political views and religious and philosophical beliefs will directly influence the decisions you make, the opinions you form, and the emotions you feel. Your moral compass is who you are, so resist any temptation to sell out the principles you’ve established for yourself. But also don’t be afraid to adjust your values when new evidence presents itself, because unflinching stubbornness is one of the worst traits we have as a species and is something you'll want to avoid.
7. Sometime soon, a certain aspect of your health will change, and you’ll spend more time than you’d prefer visiting doctors and taking tests. Don’t be alarmed; despite some nasty inconveniences, you’re going to be just fine. But during those times of stress, try and focus on the silver lining of your situation. You’ll develop a passion and become an advocate for a health topic that, as of right now, you’ve never even heard of. And by doing so, you’ll also learn to better appreciate the passions of your friends and family, which deserve just as much recognition and attention as your own.
8. Finally, accept the fact that mistakes are unavoidable and that you’re going to make a ton of them over the next decade. Some really big ones, too. The older and more responsible you become, the heavier those mistakes will weigh and the more regret they'll cause. Regret’s a nasty feeling, but it’s also a sign that you’re human. So approach mistakes with a little humility, but don’t let that regret rule your life.
Well, it’s late so I’m heading to bed. Believe it or not, the carefree sleep schedule you've taken for granted doesn’t last forever. Your circadian rhythm will soon adapt to the 9-5 workweek, and those days of binge-watching movies throughout the wee hours of the night will come to an end. But honestly, you couldn’t be happier about where your life is about to be at 30. And, despite the twists and turns you've experienced over the past decade, you'll come to realize that over the long term, life operates on a pretty narrow tangent. So trust the path you've chosen for yourself, brush off what you can't control, and enjoy the ride.
Oh, and one last thing. Would you mind holding on to this letter for a while? I'd love to check it out again when I'm 40.
Talk soon,
Mike
Happy 20th birthday Mike!
Don't be alarmed by the return address. It’s just you … or at least a self-reflective version of you that’s on the cusp of turning 30. I felt it was necessary to send you this letter, not to warn you of any disasters or to urge you to change your future, but to try and infuse a little confidence in those moments of uncertainty you're bound to experience over the next decade. So without further exposition (which I know you hate), here are a few tidbits to tuck away into your subconscious during your twenties:
1. One of your most exciting post-college moments will be receiving your first paycheck. Crazy to think that someone will pay you to produce work with actual value. But before you even cash that check (er, direct deposit, but you don’t know what that means yet), you'll be pressured into putting a large chunk of it away: for a house, for retirement, for a car, for everything except the fun and games you’ve looked forward to in adulthood. You’ll reluctantly agree, but I can assure you that by the time you're 30, you'll be glad you didn't delay saving. You remember dad always saying, “Pay yourself first”? Listen to him. It’s good advice.
2. That writing itch you developed as a kid still won't go away. Your desire to tell stories, no matter the outlet, will feel like an addiction, so don't be afraid to scratch that itch. You'll shy away when people ask you about writing in person, but you'll relish the opportunity to dig into the next story once you’re home. Embrace that feeling, because it may not last forever. Believe it or not, the word "writer" will one day be part of your actual job description. So that English Writing degree isn't going to waste! And get this: you’ll even get paid to write jokes . . . on ESPN! Though don't get too excited—they cut all the good ones out. At least the first time.
3. Social Media, a phenomenon you are just starting to gauge, will soon dominate your (and everyone else's) world. It'll feel strange at first to publicly share so much of your life on the internet, but you’ll soon discover that social media is really a writer’s dream. It’s instant access to your audience in a way that you couldn’t have imagined. Thursdays in particular will be a fun time, and Phyllis will become iconic (trust me).
4. As a naïve college student (don’t take that the wrong way, but it’s true), you probably think you possess all the answers. While I can assure you that you’re wrong, what's worse is that this instinct won’t ever subside. It’s engraved in your personality, and people will make fun of your willingness to play the devil's advocate for any subject, no matter how ridiculous. Fortunately, you'll eventually begin to develop a bit more humility: an under-appreciated trait that has paid dividends in your life in more ways than one.
5. Remember that even in college your circle of relationships is still fairly small. Some of your best friends and inspirations haven’t even entered your life yet. So nurture those friendships that truly deserve it, but don’t be afraid to branch out and make new ones when opportunities present themselves. And that girl you've been dating for a few months now? Well, without getting into any details, let me just say that you'd be wise to treat her extremely well.
6. While your teen years helped to define your identity, your twenties will really shape your moral compass. Things like your political views and religious and philosophical beliefs will directly influence the decisions you make, the opinions you form, and the emotions you feel. Your moral compass is who you are, so resist any temptation to sell out the principles you’ve established for yourself. But also don’t be afraid to adjust your values when new evidence presents itself, because unflinching stubbornness is one of the worst traits we have as a species and is something you'll want to avoid.
7. Sometime soon, a certain aspect of your health will change, and you’ll spend more time than you’d prefer visiting doctors and taking tests. Don’t be alarmed; despite some nasty inconveniences, you’re going to be just fine. But during those times of stress, try and focus on the silver lining of your situation. You’ll develop a passion and become an advocate for a health topic that, as of right now, you’ve never even heard of. And by doing so, you’ll also learn to better appreciate the passions of your friends and family, which deserve just as much recognition and attention as your own.
8. Finally, accept the fact that mistakes are unavoidable and that you’re going to make a ton of them over the next decade. Some really big ones, too. The older and more responsible you become, the heavier those mistakes will weigh and the more regret they'll cause. Regret’s a nasty feeling, but it’s also a sign that you’re human. So approach mistakes with a little humility, but don’t let that regret rule your life.
Well, it’s late so I’m heading to bed. Believe it or not, the carefree sleep schedule you've taken for granted doesn’t last forever. Your circadian rhythm will soon adapt to the 9-5 workweek, and those days of binge-watching movies throughout the wee hours of the night will come to an end. But honestly, you couldn’t be happier about where your life is about to be at 30. And, despite the twists and turns you've experienced over the past decade, you'll come to realize that over the long term, life operates on a pretty narrow tangent. So trust the path you've chosen for yourself, brush off what you can't control, and enjoy the ride.
Oh, and one last thing. Would you mind holding on to this letter for a while? I'd love to check it out again when I'm 40.
Talk soon,
Mike
The Everything in Nothing: My 90 Minutes in a Sensory Deprivation Tank
The tank
December 1, 2015
Anyone who knows me would probably characterize me as “high-strung” and “on edge.” I don’t suffer from traditional anxiety; I just love categorizing my problems and then rushing to solve them. Life challenges me, and I accept the challenge readily. Still, the resulting battle with life’s non-stop obstacles typically leaves me little room to breathe or relax. So when a friend and his wife recently mentioned their experiences in a sensory deprivation tank, it sounded intriguing. What the heck was a sensory deprivation tank? I quickly consulted Google. Strip away your senses, and your world changes seemed to be the gist of the comments. Still, my idealistic excitement was tinged with skepticism. Could meditation be forced? Would it even work for a person like me? Ultimately, my curiosity prevailed, and this past Saturday, I finally decided to give it a try at a nearby spa.
A sensory deprivation tank (or “isolation/floatation tank”) is just what it sounds like: it’s a box, about the size of a twin bed, containing roughly a foot of Epsom-salt water. Inside the box, it’s pitch black and soundproof, and the heavy concentration of salt allows you to float. In other words, your traditional senses (and thus, all external stimuli) are completely removed from your brain, creating a fully isolated experience. The purpose is to create a meditation-like feeling, enabling the brain waves to replicate the “theta” state (which is as close to sleep as you can be without sleeping) and allowing the mind to access its most creative and inspirational thoughts. Deep stuff.
The tank rested in a tiny, otherwise empty room. On top were wax earplugs and a radio timed to play music to signify the end of the session. I fully undressed, applied the plugs, and opened the square door positioned at the foot of the tank. I crawled into the darkness, shut the door behind me and floated on my back. At first, the water (roughly 90 degrees) created a mini-tide, and my body shifted from side to side until my arms pressed against the walls to stop it. Once steady, I stretched my arms behind me, leaned my head back and submerged my ears, so that only the top of my face remained above water. Just that small movement – which offered the most natural position with the least resistance - gave me an odd sense of submission to the environment. I was fully immersed, mind and body ready for whatever I was about to experience.
For the first twenty minutes, nothing really seemed to change. I continued to notice my surroundings, never dropping my inhibitions. No magic, no euphoria, no brilliant revelations. There was a brief period of unease, so I quickly kicked open the door for a brief moment to reestablish my perspective. Beyond that though, I never experienced any panic or claustrophobia.
Some point midway through, true relaxation kicked in. I’d describe the feeling as similar to a massage, even though in some ways it represented the complete opposite. In a massage, you are being stimulated, sometimes overly so. You are being touched, pushed, prodded. Here, I was weightless, soundless, entirely alone. However, in both cases, I have felt that indescribable sense of freedom. The confines of the tank allowed my mind to wander free.
My brain never slowed down per se, but I was now able to focus on what I wanted, versus whatever usually fought for my attention. Bills, tasks, and priorities disappeared from my consciousness and were replaced with a rush of iconic and vivid memories. While it’s difficult to remember them all, I specifically recall visions of my high school and college experiences: beautiful, distinct memories and events that played out like a glossy photo reel., My thoughts flowed almost like a dream, covering every topic—love, sex, commitment, longevity—and offering every emotion—fear, love, joy, excitement—a seat at the table. For the remaining time, I drifted in a state of semi-consciousness, until ambient music started to play, reminding me that the session was coming to a close. I crawled out of the tank, and within seconds, that calm feeling evaporated; the sounds and sights of the outside world snapped me straight back into reality. I put back on my clothes, hopped in the car, and returned to the high-strung life where I started.
Much to my dismay, I didn’t achieve any Zen-like euphoria in the tank, or solve any of life’s meddling problems. Or maybe I did but I’m too absent-minded to realize it. Another session or two might confirm either way, but I don’t really need to know. For me, the tank simply marked a worthwhile experience I can now cross off my bucket list. Yet unlike other items on that list (e.g., skydiving), the ‘rush’ was actually an anti-rush. A complete absence of energy or stimuli. And in the fast-paced, stress-filled world that we all struggle through every day, taking a 90-minute break to simply think served as a welcome change of pace. Sometimes, that’s enough.
Anyone who knows me would probably characterize me as “high-strung” and “on edge.” I don’t suffer from traditional anxiety; I just love categorizing my problems and then rushing to solve them. Life challenges me, and I accept the challenge readily. Still, the resulting battle with life’s non-stop obstacles typically leaves me little room to breathe or relax. So when a friend and his wife recently mentioned their experiences in a sensory deprivation tank, it sounded intriguing. What the heck was a sensory deprivation tank? I quickly consulted Google. Strip away your senses, and your world changes seemed to be the gist of the comments. Still, my idealistic excitement was tinged with skepticism. Could meditation be forced? Would it even work for a person like me? Ultimately, my curiosity prevailed, and this past Saturday, I finally decided to give it a try at a nearby spa.
A sensory deprivation tank (or “isolation/floatation tank”) is just what it sounds like: it’s a box, about the size of a twin bed, containing roughly a foot of Epsom-salt water. Inside the box, it’s pitch black and soundproof, and the heavy concentration of salt allows you to float. In other words, your traditional senses (and thus, all external stimuli) are completely removed from your brain, creating a fully isolated experience. The purpose is to create a meditation-like feeling, enabling the brain waves to replicate the “theta” state (which is as close to sleep as you can be without sleeping) and allowing the mind to access its most creative and inspirational thoughts. Deep stuff.
The tank rested in a tiny, otherwise empty room. On top were wax earplugs and a radio timed to play music to signify the end of the session. I fully undressed, applied the plugs, and opened the square door positioned at the foot of the tank. I crawled into the darkness, shut the door behind me and floated on my back. At first, the water (roughly 90 degrees) created a mini-tide, and my body shifted from side to side until my arms pressed against the walls to stop it. Once steady, I stretched my arms behind me, leaned my head back and submerged my ears, so that only the top of my face remained above water. Just that small movement – which offered the most natural position with the least resistance - gave me an odd sense of submission to the environment. I was fully immersed, mind and body ready for whatever I was about to experience.
For the first twenty minutes, nothing really seemed to change. I continued to notice my surroundings, never dropping my inhibitions. No magic, no euphoria, no brilliant revelations. There was a brief period of unease, so I quickly kicked open the door for a brief moment to reestablish my perspective. Beyond that though, I never experienced any panic or claustrophobia.
Some point midway through, true relaxation kicked in. I’d describe the feeling as similar to a massage, even though in some ways it represented the complete opposite. In a massage, you are being stimulated, sometimes overly so. You are being touched, pushed, prodded. Here, I was weightless, soundless, entirely alone. However, in both cases, I have felt that indescribable sense of freedom. The confines of the tank allowed my mind to wander free.
My brain never slowed down per se, but I was now able to focus on what I wanted, versus whatever usually fought for my attention. Bills, tasks, and priorities disappeared from my consciousness and were replaced with a rush of iconic and vivid memories. While it’s difficult to remember them all, I specifically recall visions of my high school and college experiences: beautiful, distinct memories and events that played out like a glossy photo reel., My thoughts flowed almost like a dream, covering every topic—love, sex, commitment, longevity—and offering every emotion—fear, love, joy, excitement—a seat at the table. For the remaining time, I drifted in a state of semi-consciousness, until ambient music started to play, reminding me that the session was coming to a close. I crawled out of the tank, and within seconds, that calm feeling evaporated; the sounds and sights of the outside world snapped me straight back into reality. I put back on my clothes, hopped in the car, and returned to the high-strung life where I started.
Much to my dismay, I didn’t achieve any Zen-like euphoria in the tank, or solve any of life’s meddling problems. Or maybe I did but I’m too absent-minded to realize it. Another session or two might confirm either way, but I don’t really need to know. For me, the tank simply marked a worthwhile experience I can now cross off my bucket list. Yet unlike other items on that list (e.g., skydiving), the ‘rush’ was actually an anti-rush. A complete absence of energy or stimuli. And in the fast-paced, stress-filled world that we all struggle through every day, taking a 90-minute break to simply think served as a welcome change of pace. Sometimes, that’s enough.
Bonded: Why Marriage Shouldn't Require Sacrificing Your Identity
November 10, 2015
Among my favorite elements of Sarah Jacobs’s eloquent prose is her often blunt, insightful exploration of how we define ‘traditional’ roles within relationships. Her latest HuffPo piece in particular—which brushes aside the stigmas often associated with ‘singleness’—captures so perfectly our perpetual struggle to ‘find someone else’. And while my status as a married person means that I approach relationships from a slightly different angle than my dear friend, the spirit of Sarah’s post is something that I’ve considered one of the most fundamental aspects of my marriage: that a couple’s marriage doesn’t—and shouldn’t—define their identity.
Last week, my wife Gabrielle and I celebrated our fourth anniversary. As we drank wine and shoved our faces full of delicious Italian cuisine, we took some time to reflect not only on the healthiness of our marriage, but on the methods we’ve used to maintain our peaceful union. Sure, we argue (who doesn’t?), but very infrequently do we find ourselves on entirely ‘different pages’. And while I wouldn’t dare suggest that four years of marriage (or ten years of coupledom) qualify us to offer advice on how to ‘make marriage work’, the way in which we’ve chosen to define our relationship just might be the reason we’ve avoided major problems and, miraculously, that common habit of “getting on each other’s nerves.”
Four years ago, beneath the eaves of Heinz Chapel, in the presence of nearly 300 friends and family, Gabrielle and I recited traditional vows (“…to love, honor, obey…”, “Till death do you part…”) that demonstrated our overall commitment to each other. But here’s the thing: the part of the service where you state your vows is only a few moments long. You recite a few sentences, at most—that’s it. Now, how is anyone supposed to define a lifelong commitment to another person—never mind all the subtext that goes into an actual marriage—in a few sentences? The reality was, while all of our friends and family were there witnessing our public commitment, only Gabrielle and I realized how arbitrary those vows really were. Yes, maybe calling religious wedding vows ‘arbitrary’ means I’ll wind up in Hell, but frankly that ship has sailed.
By their very nature, marriage and cohabitation require chipping away pieces of your personal identity: swapping out individual tastes for something new, something collective. On good days, this component of marriage is one of the most romantic and exciting: you’re building something together, something you both intend to last many, many years. Still, when two people marry, committing to that collective creation that is the relationship should be equally as important as fostering each other’s individual identity. Allowing yourself to be subsumed by your partner—or, conversely, subsuming them—is dangerous. I’ve watched it happen: you lose touch with friends, give up hobbies, and transform into an entirely different person, all in the name of ‘dedicating your life to your marriage’. And while each individual loss by itself isn’t colossal, together this slow leaking away of your identity only makes you more susceptible to pain and horror of realizing, one day, that you are no longer . . . you.
Gabrielle often jokes that she kept her maiden name because “there are enough Smiths in the world.” (There are.) But the unstated truth is that even something as simple as a name can constitute so much of a person’s identity. Her last name served as a constant reminder of Gabrielle’s father and the legacy that he left in his two daughters—a legacy that has flourished even more since his death. Gabrielle couldn’t imagine disregarding his name in order to acquire mine (nor did I ask her to). In many ways, though, a name is trivial. The stakes are low. The effects are short-lived. Nurturing your self-worth and balancing that against a marriage, on the other hand, is a long-term commitment: one that everyone thinks they can achieve, but which only a few actually have the patience and desire to pursue. To do so means to fly in the face of the cultural stigma that says that seeking self-fulfillment means we are acting selfishly.
Take the mere act of travelling alone: when I explain that I’m taking one of my frequent trips to New York City, I tend to receive questioning, often suspicious looks. “You mean you’re going without Gab?” “Yes.” “And she’s cool with all your trips?” Oh God, the horror! As if she couldn’t possibly live by herself for four whole days, in a clean, tranquil house without her slob of a husband leaving his dirty dishes and clothes scattered throughout. After a great deal of practice, I’ve quit rationalizing (“Well, her work schedule isn’t as flexible, and this event I’m writing for isn’t open to guests. . . .”) and have instead chosen to share the blunt truth: “She’ll be fine.” To this day, I remain perplexed that something as basic as embracing our individual identities away from each other is seen as foreign by so many people. Maintaining separate friendships, encouraging time away from one another . . . just the overall acknowledgement that it’s healthy to politely say we need space to explore our personal interests is probably our greatest trait as a couple. Or, more importantly, as individuals.
If I were to offer one piece of marriage advice—and God knows, there’s plenty out there—it would be this: take responsibility for developing and nurturing your own self-worth and happiness. Establish personal boundaries, and avoid co-dependency. (Okay, I guess technically that was three pieces...) Gabrielle and I share our finances, our home, our family, our bond. Those four items alone offer plenty of challenges and rewarding experiences. And in all honesty, that’s a pretty short list—we share plenty more than that. But one thing that I never want to share is the belief that we'd somehow be nothing without each other. Because in the end, while your spouse should always be there to catch you if you fall, first they should help you to stand on your own.
Among my favorite elements of Sarah Jacobs’s eloquent prose is her often blunt, insightful exploration of how we define ‘traditional’ roles within relationships. Her latest HuffPo piece in particular—which brushes aside the stigmas often associated with ‘singleness’—captures so perfectly our perpetual struggle to ‘find someone else’. And while my status as a married person means that I approach relationships from a slightly different angle than my dear friend, the spirit of Sarah’s post is something that I’ve considered one of the most fundamental aspects of my marriage: that a couple’s marriage doesn’t—and shouldn’t—define their identity.
Last week, my wife Gabrielle and I celebrated our fourth anniversary. As we drank wine and shoved our faces full of delicious Italian cuisine, we took some time to reflect not only on the healthiness of our marriage, but on the methods we’ve used to maintain our peaceful union. Sure, we argue (who doesn’t?), but very infrequently do we find ourselves on entirely ‘different pages’. And while I wouldn’t dare suggest that four years of marriage (or ten years of coupledom) qualify us to offer advice on how to ‘make marriage work’, the way in which we’ve chosen to define our relationship just might be the reason we’ve avoided major problems and, miraculously, that common habit of “getting on each other’s nerves.”
Four years ago, beneath the eaves of Heinz Chapel, in the presence of nearly 300 friends and family, Gabrielle and I recited traditional vows (“…to love, honor, obey…”, “Till death do you part…”) that demonstrated our overall commitment to each other. But here’s the thing: the part of the service where you state your vows is only a few moments long. You recite a few sentences, at most—that’s it. Now, how is anyone supposed to define a lifelong commitment to another person—never mind all the subtext that goes into an actual marriage—in a few sentences? The reality was, while all of our friends and family were there witnessing our public commitment, only Gabrielle and I realized how arbitrary those vows really were. Yes, maybe calling religious wedding vows ‘arbitrary’ means I’ll wind up in Hell, but frankly that ship has sailed.
By their very nature, marriage and cohabitation require chipping away pieces of your personal identity: swapping out individual tastes for something new, something collective. On good days, this component of marriage is one of the most romantic and exciting: you’re building something together, something you both intend to last many, many years. Still, when two people marry, committing to that collective creation that is the relationship should be equally as important as fostering each other’s individual identity. Allowing yourself to be subsumed by your partner—or, conversely, subsuming them—is dangerous. I’ve watched it happen: you lose touch with friends, give up hobbies, and transform into an entirely different person, all in the name of ‘dedicating your life to your marriage’. And while each individual loss by itself isn’t colossal, together this slow leaking away of your identity only makes you more susceptible to pain and horror of realizing, one day, that you are no longer . . . you.
Gabrielle often jokes that she kept her maiden name because “there are enough Smiths in the world.” (There are.) But the unstated truth is that even something as simple as a name can constitute so much of a person’s identity. Her last name served as a constant reminder of Gabrielle’s father and the legacy that he left in his two daughters—a legacy that has flourished even more since his death. Gabrielle couldn’t imagine disregarding his name in order to acquire mine (nor did I ask her to). In many ways, though, a name is trivial. The stakes are low. The effects are short-lived. Nurturing your self-worth and balancing that against a marriage, on the other hand, is a long-term commitment: one that everyone thinks they can achieve, but which only a few actually have the patience and desire to pursue. To do so means to fly in the face of the cultural stigma that says that seeking self-fulfillment means we are acting selfishly.
Take the mere act of travelling alone: when I explain that I’m taking one of my frequent trips to New York City, I tend to receive questioning, often suspicious looks. “You mean you’re going without Gab?” “Yes.” “And she’s cool with all your trips?” Oh God, the horror! As if she couldn’t possibly live by herself for four whole days, in a clean, tranquil house without her slob of a husband leaving his dirty dishes and clothes scattered throughout. After a great deal of practice, I’ve quit rationalizing (“Well, her work schedule isn’t as flexible, and this event I’m writing for isn’t open to guests. . . .”) and have instead chosen to share the blunt truth: “She’ll be fine.” To this day, I remain perplexed that something as basic as embracing our individual identities away from each other is seen as foreign by so many people. Maintaining separate friendships, encouraging time away from one another . . . just the overall acknowledgement that it’s healthy to politely say we need space to explore our personal interests is probably our greatest trait as a couple. Or, more importantly, as individuals.
If I were to offer one piece of marriage advice—and God knows, there’s plenty out there—it would be this: take responsibility for developing and nurturing your own self-worth and happiness. Establish personal boundaries, and avoid co-dependency. (Okay, I guess technically that was three pieces...) Gabrielle and I share our finances, our home, our family, our bond. Those four items alone offer plenty of challenges and rewarding experiences. And in all honesty, that’s a pretty short list—we share plenty more than that. But one thing that I never want to share is the belief that we'd somehow be nothing without each other. Because in the end, while your spouse should always be there to catch you if you fall, first they should help you to stand on your own.
The Zero Sum Game of Friendship
September 23, 2015
Here’s an exercise. Dig up the old picture frames, yearbooks and photo albums that best capture your social life. Go back as far as you can. Take a few dozen pictures of your friends and organize them chronologically. Now look at the timeline that you’ve created. I bet there’s as many “Just as close now as we were then!” as there are “God, we used to be so close, what happened?”
The psychology behind ‘friendship maintenance’ has always fascinated me. How we bend over backwards to stay close with some, squeeze in time when we can with others, or even subconsciously avoid people we don’t seem to mesh with anymore. It hurts when effort is not reciprocated, yet we’re all guilty of it ourselves. Adulthood just forces us to allocate our ‘friend time’ with care. Nothing is done maliciously; it's not like we purposely categorize people. And while most of us juggle as many as we can, sometimes we’re just too afraid to say that there isn’t enough time. Or to be brutally honest: the personalities that once shaped certain friendships now differ so much that being together is more awkward than enjoyable. But why?
Because we tend to treat friendship as a zero-sum game. One person’s gain is another’s loss. Fitting you in a weekend timeslot means someone else falls out. Pouring out my problems to you over wine means that someone else will no longer will hear them. It’s a cynical and misguided view of how we perceive our relationships, but for the most part, it’s a natural occurrence.
Social media both helps and hurts the cause. It provides a glimpse into the shell of a person but prohibits us from seeing what’s underneath. Worse, it creates the illusion that we haven’t evolved. We’re flooded with so many superficial details (pre-packaged and positioned with a particular agenda) that it’s so easy to truly lose sight of a person. Yes, I know what you did today, but I miss knowing how you felt doing it. One of the habits I’ve developed is writing notes to myself on things people post, so I can follow up later. Not because I’ve slipped into senility but because sometimes I need to remind myself that there is a desire to learn more, a need to dig deeper.
But what we really crave most is that mutual understanding we share with certain individuals. A realization that what we have is truly organic, and can take comfort in knowing that nothing is forced. That’s why I’m so thankful for those who can go months without seeing each other but still pick up where we left off. Those natural connections that don’t require a reoccurring timestamp. Because friendships are not meant to be like deli meat; they don’t expire if left idle for too long.
And even if certain friendships fade away, should we really treat it as a bad thing? I can point to a particular group of friends from one of those aforementioned picture frames. Twelve years ago, I couldn’t imagine life without them at the center. Today, there are some who I haven’t seen in five years. I couldn’t even tell you what state they live in. Sure, sometimes it makes me sad. But mostly curious. I ask myself what it would be like if X and I were still best friends. Or if I was still dating Y. If we’re lucky though, it shouldn’t matter. Those relationships and memories helped to shape who we’ve become today. I hope that the guys with me on that high school birthday trip, or the girl I took to senior prom, know that. Because even if I’m unlikely to tell them in person again, I wouldn’t trade those experiences for anything.
Life is linear, and with seven billion of us, we shouldn’t fault each other for naturally growing in different directions. So my advice to you: if what you shared was truly authentic, then you’ve already carved out a special place in that person’s heart. Don’t be afraid to hand over the chisel.
Here’s an exercise. Dig up the old picture frames, yearbooks and photo albums that best capture your social life. Go back as far as you can. Take a few dozen pictures of your friends and organize them chronologically. Now look at the timeline that you’ve created. I bet there’s as many “Just as close now as we were then!” as there are “God, we used to be so close, what happened?”
The psychology behind ‘friendship maintenance’ has always fascinated me. How we bend over backwards to stay close with some, squeeze in time when we can with others, or even subconsciously avoid people we don’t seem to mesh with anymore. It hurts when effort is not reciprocated, yet we’re all guilty of it ourselves. Adulthood just forces us to allocate our ‘friend time’ with care. Nothing is done maliciously; it's not like we purposely categorize people. And while most of us juggle as many as we can, sometimes we’re just too afraid to say that there isn’t enough time. Or to be brutally honest: the personalities that once shaped certain friendships now differ so much that being together is more awkward than enjoyable. But why?
Because we tend to treat friendship as a zero-sum game. One person’s gain is another’s loss. Fitting you in a weekend timeslot means someone else falls out. Pouring out my problems to you over wine means that someone else will no longer will hear them. It’s a cynical and misguided view of how we perceive our relationships, but for the most part, it’s a natural occurrence.
Social media both helps and hurts the cause. It provides a glimpse into the shell of a person but prohibits us from seeing what’s underneath. Worse, it creates the illusion that we haven’t evolved. We’re flooded with so many superficial details (pre-packaged and positioned with a particular agenda) that it’s so easy to truly lose sight of a person. Yes, I know what you did today, but I miss knowing how you felt doing it. One of the habits I’ve developed is writing notes to myself on things people post, so I can follow up later. Not because I’ve slipped into senility but because sometimes I need to remind myself that there is a desire to learn more, a need to dig deeper.
But what we really crave most is that mutual understanding we share with certain individuals. A realization that what we have is truly organic, and can take comfort in knowing that nothing is forced. That’s why I’m so thankful for those who can go months without seeing each other but still pick up where we left off. Those natural connections that don’t require a reoccurring timestamp. Because friendships are not meant to be like deli meat; they don’t expire if left idle for too long.
And even if certain friendships fade away, should we really treat it as a bad thing? I can point to a particular group of friends from one of those aforementioned picture frames. Twelve years ago, I couldn’t imagine life without them at the center. Today, there are some who I haven’t seen in five years. I couldn’t even tell you what state they live in. Sure, sometimes it makes me sad. But mostly curious. I ask myself what it would be like if X and I were still best friends. Or if I was still dating Y. If we’re lucky though, it shouldn’t matter. Those relationships and memories helped to shape who we’ve become today. I hope that the guys with me on that high school birthday trip, or the girl I took to senior prom, know that. Because even if I’m unlikely to tell them in person again, I wouldn’t trade those experiences for anything.
Life is linear, and with seven billion of us, we shouldn’t fault each other for naturally growing in different directions. So my advice to you: if what you shared was truly authentic, then you’ve already carved out a special place in that person’s heart. Don’t be afraid to hand over the chisel.
Nest Delay
August 18, 2015
“So when are you having kids?”
It’s a question asked of me at least once a day. No exaggeration. I encounter enough people – at home, at work, on the street, at family events – that if I haven’t already addressed this particular topic, the statute of limitations expired and so they felt the need to ask again. I’ve mastered my 2-3 sentence response, and I’m sure most reading this blog have heard said boilerplate language already. Trust me, our conversation is not unique. And while I’m not going to reiterate my feelings on if and when I/we want to have children here, the entire social response we have to the act of having children has always rubbed me the wrong way, and that’s only been amplified since getting married a few years ago. In the eyes of some, my marriage quickly evolved from a blissful union of love to a prerequisite to cranking out offspring. “How is married life” tends to evaporate within six months and evolve into “Any babies in the near future?”. People fling the ‘kid’ question so casually anymore that it feels like the act of bearing a child is akin to replacing your furnace. I try to keep a mental tally, and I’d say only 1 out of 5 ask me IF I’m having kids, and 4 out of 5 ask WHEN. It’s so expected.
No hypocrisy here. I am guilty too, sure. We all are. It’s not a bad question as much as it’s a loaded one. When dissecting, the question is basically asking: “Hey, what are your viewpoints about creating a human life inside of you, bringing it out into an often unstable world, being responsible and caring for it for at least 18 years, likely helping pay for his/her college tuition, dealing with the roller coaster of ups and downs it comes with raising a child, maybe seeing them get married and/or produce kids of their own, maybe growing old and potentially becoming a burden on their own well-being? Soooo, are you doing that this year or next??”
Maybe I’ve taken notice because I’m not among those who believe that you suddenly transform from flawed human being to savior of the world because you’ve decided to have a baby. I also loathe the viewpoint that people who choose not to have children are somehow selfish or less-charitable than the couple down the street with a family of five. It’s such a flawed mindset, the idea that our personal worth is determined simply by whether or not we choose to procreate. People can still lead ultimately fulfilling lives and contribute to the better of society without bringing another life into it. And while I’m not going to pretend to comprehend what it’s like functioning as a mother or father, I’m still uneasy about certain societal advantages that parents receive vs. non-parents. Tax incentives. Prioritization. Need to leave work early to attend Johnny’s softball game? No problem! But try to get out of work early to see your favorite band play at a nearby festival, and you get the stink eye. Yes, I’m simplifying the realities of having children, but some out there may choose an alternative path to parenting, and that does not make their goals any less valid or their struggles any less legitimate.
To those with kids: I’m sure your child/ren are beautiful and are the greatest treasures of your life. And that they are unique and separate from the other seven billion people that currently inhabit this place we call Earth. But that’s not really the point. The point is that when you ask that question, remember that there are some people who 1) would make for awful parents, 2) want to be parents but may be struggling to, or 3) would make great parents but choose not to. You certainly don’t want more of the first group, you might upset people in the second group, and if they’re in the third group….should it make a difference?
“So when are you having kids?”
It’s a question asked of me at least once a day. No exaggeration. I encounter enough people – at home, at work, on the street, at family events – that if I haven’t already addressed this particular topic, the statute of limitations expired and so they felt the need to ask again. I’ve mastered my 2-3 sentence response, and I’m sure most reading this blog have heard said boilerplate language already. Trust me, our conversation is not unique. And while I’m not going to reiterate my feelings on if and when I/we want to have children here, the entire social response we have to the act of having children has always rubbed me the wrong way, and that’s only been amplified since getting married a few years ago. In the eyes of some, my marriage quickly evolved from a blissful union of love to a prerequisite to cranking out offspring. “How is married life” tends to evaporate within six months and evolve into “Any babies in the near future?”. People fling the ‘kid’ question so casually anymore that it feels like the act of bearing a child is akin to replacing your furnace. I try to keep a mental tally, and I’d say only 1 out of 5 ask me IF I’m having kids, and 4 out of 5 ask WHEN. It’s so expected.
No hypocrisy here. I am guilty too, sure. We all are. It’s not a bad question as much as it’s a loaded one. When dissecting, the question is basically asking: “Hey, what are your viewpoints about creating a human life inside of you, bringing it out into an often unstable world, being responsible and caring for it for at least 18 years, likely helping pay for his/her college tuition, dealing with the roller coaster of ups and downs it comes with raising a child, maybe seeing them get married and/or produce kids of their own, maybe growing old and potentially becoming a burden on their own well-being? Soooo, are you doing that this year or next??”
Maybe I’ve taken notice because I’m not among those who believe that you suddenly transform from flawed human being to savior of the world because you’ve decided to have a baby. I also loathe the viewpoint that people who choose not to have children are somehow selfish or less-charitable than the couple down the street with a family of five. It’s such a flawed mindset, the idea that our personal worth is determined simply by whether or not we choose to procreate. People can still lead ultimately fulfilling lives and contribute to the better of society without bringing another life into it. And while I’m not going to pretend to comprehend what it’s like functioning as a mother or father, I’m still uneasy about certain societal advantages that parents receive vs. non-parents. Tax incentives. Prioritization. Need to leave work early to attend Johnny’s softball game? No problem! But try to get out of work early to see your favorite band play at a nearby festival, and you get the stink eye. Yes, I’m simplifying the realities of having children, but some out there may choose an alternative path to parenting, and that does not make their goals any less valid or their struggles any less legitimate.
To those with kids: I’m sure your child/ren are beautiful and are the greatest treasures of your life. And that they are unique and separate from the other seven billion people that currently inhabit this place we call Earth. But that’s not really the point. The point is that when you ask that question, remember that there are some people who 1) would make for awful parents, 2) want to be parents but may be struggling to, or 3) would make great parents but choose not to. You certainly don’t want more of the first group, you might upset people in the second group, and if they’re in the third group….should it make a difference?
Beta Times: A Challenge to My Fellow Writers
July 2, 2015
Note: I use the terms write/read a ton in this post, though you can easily substitute with other verbs. Watch, view, listen, etc. It's an artistic post, not exclusive to writing.
June sucked. Sure, there were some positive nuggets in the news, including a groundbreaking Supreme Court decision. Apart from that, what a shitty month. On social media (Twitter especially), bad news is often exemplified tenfold since it’s happening in real-time and disseminated at such a rapid pace. It makes it difficult to ignore and even harder to combat. In light of this, I thought I’d challenge my social networking friends to transform July into a month of positivity...the best way we can. And since most of my followers are writers, I felt the best way to use your craft to help a fellow writer (without having to spend a dime) is simply this:
Pledge to review and provide feedback to three pieces of art (scripts, short stories, films, etc.) from three separate people in July.
Now, simple etiquette demonstrates that you don’t ask people you barely know (especially those in a position of influence) to randomly read your script or give you feedback. It’s a great rule. Instead, I'm asking you to let your guard down by carving a few hours out of your month to helping your fellow creatives by giving them the simple gift of time. Maybe it's a script in development. Maybe it's a novel available on Amazon. Maybe it's the demo of a new song. Bottom line: there are artists out there who have put their blood, sweat and tears into their art, and going out of your way to ingest that art (even if you hate it) could greatly impact their future work. And you know what? Screw it, it's a nice thing to do. Here are the basic rules:
1. Proactively put the offer on the table to your followers. "I will read and provide notes on three scripts." "I will watch a rough cut of three short films." "I will read the first chapter of three books.". Let everyone know what's on the table.
2. Set the boundaries of what you're agreeing to/what they wish. Are you going to give them a page of notes? Are you going to rate their stuff on Goodreads? Do they just want an honest answer to the question "Does this suck?"
3. Clarify that you are only one person offering advice. That should be a given, but at the end of the exercise, there should be no hard feelings.
4. Establish a no-judgement zone. Well, not on the feedback, obviously. But your approach should always be "I hope my feedback helps this person on their next draft/project", not "Wow what a shitty writer."
5. Broaden your horizon. Of course you're likely to read your closest friends' scripts. Maybe extend to those you might interact with on Twitter but have yet to sample their work.
Now, there's a certain arrogance to thinking that your opinion is soooo worthy of being shared. But honestly, it actually is. If people follow you on Twitter, it's because in some capacity, they are interested in hearing what you have to say. And if they have the guts to take you up on your pledge, that means they especially value your viewpoint. Plus in the end, we're all artists. We’re protective of our work and typically don’t prefer to put ourselves in vulnerable positions (even though it's 100% necessary to do so).
Call this paying it forward. Call it #GoodDeedFriday (as Calvin Starnes, or @mysterygrip does). Call it whatever you want. Make a commitment to yourself and your fellow social media camaraderie for just one month. Completely unreciprocated and in full acknowledgement that all you can offer is one person’s feedback and viewpoint. Remember the two hours you wasted watching that shitty movie? You could have read a script and written a nice email to a stranger. Just remember (on both sides):
Will it help further advance your/their career? No.
Will this person receive/offer you the groundbreaking advice needed to improve the quality of the writing? Maybe.
Will you/they appreciate the point of view so much that maybe you’ll add them/be added to a trusted circle of beta readers? I hope so. And isn’t that what Twitter should be about?
Who's with me?
Note: I use the terms write/read a ton in this post, though you can easily substitute with other verbs. Watch, view, listen, etc. It's an artistic post, not exclusive to writing.
June sucked. Sure, there were some positive nuggets in the news, including a groundbreaking Supreme Court decision. Apart from that, what a shitty month. On social media (Twitter especially), bad news is often exemplified tenfold since it’s happening in real-time and disseminated at such a rapid pace. It makes it difficult to ignore and even harder to combat. In light of this, I thought I’d challenge my social networking friends to transform July into a month of positivity...the best way we can. And since most of my followers are writers, I felt the best way to use your craft to help a fellow writer (without having to spend a dime) is simply this:
Pledge to review and provide feedback to three pieces of art (scripts, short stories, films, etc.) from three separate people in July.
Now, simple etiquette demonstrates that you don’t ask people you barely know (especially those in a position of influence) to randomly read your script or give you feedback. It’s a great rule. Instead, I'm asking you to let your guard down by carving a few hours out of your month to helping your fellow creatives by giving them the simple gift of time. Maybe it's a script in development. Maybe it's a novel available on Amazon. Maybe it's the demo of a new song. Bottom line: there are artists out there who have put their blood, sweat and tears into their art, and going out of your way to ingest that art (even if you hate it) could greatly impact their future work. And you know what? Screw it, it's a nice thing to do. Here are the basic rules:
1. Proactively put the offer on the table to your followers. "I will read and provide notes on three scripts." "I will watch a rough cut of three short films." "I will read the first chapter of three books.". Let everyone know what's on the table.
2. Set the boundaries of what you're agreeing to/what they wish. Are you going to give them a page of notes? Are you going to rate their stuff on Goodreads? Do they just want an honest answer to the question "Does this suck?"
3. Clarify that you are only one person offering advice. That should be a given, but at the end of the exercise, there should be no hard feelings.
4. Establish a no-judgement zone. Well, not on the feedback, obviously. But your approach should always be "I hope my feedback helps this person on their next draft/project", not "Wow what a shitty writer."
5. Broaden your horizon. Of course you're likely to read your closest friends' scripts. Maybe extend to those you might interact with on Twitter but have yet to sample their work.
Now, there's a certain arrogance to thinking that your opinion is soooo worthy of being shared. But honestly, it actually is. If people follow you on Twitter, it's because in some capacity, they are interested in hearing what you have to say. And if they have the guts to take you up on your pledge, that means they especially value your viewpoint. Plus in the end, we're all artists. We’re protective of our work and typically don’t prefer to put ourselves in vulnerable positions (even though it's 100% necessary to do so).
Call this paying it forward. Call it #GoodDeedFriday (as Calvin Starnes, or @mysterygrip does). Call it whatever you want. Make a commitment to yourself and your fellow social media camaraderie for just one month. Completely unreciprocated and in full acknowledgement that all you can offer is one person’s feedback and viewpoint. Remember the two hours you wasted watching that shitty movie? You could have read a script and written a nice email to a stranger. Just remember (on both sides):
Will it help further advance your/their career? No.
Will this person receive/offer you the groundbreaking advice needed to improve the quality of the writing? Maybe.
Will you/they appreciate the point of view so much that maybe you’ll add them/be added to a trusted circle of beta readers? I hope so. And isn’t that what Twitter should be about?
Who's with me?
Remembering the Gala - 10 Honest Takeaways and Tips for Filmmakers
June 2, 2015
That’s a wrap folks. It’s been eight days since our last ‘cut!’, and my out-of-town guests fled back to New York City. Normal sleep has been restored, and I’ve finally had a chance to truly reflect on this mind-blowing experience. While the six months of pre-production planning were stressful but highly-organized, those four days - hopping from set-to-set, sleeping (at most) three hours a night on my couch, running on chocolate Teddy Grahams - could only be described as pure chaos. Others may have felt differently, but for me, those four days all run on one blurry, linear tangent, and it’s amazing that we somehow were able to pull it off. As a writer, director, and producer of the film, I’ve learned about a million things throughout this process (with a million more to come in post). Today though, I thought I’d share the top 10 takeaways for me, as well as some additional tips to aspiring filmmakers looking to make a short film on an actual budget:
1) Assemble a great team. Holy Ba-Jesus did Gala have an amazing cast and crew. And I’m talking both in their efficiency on set as well as just pure talent in their positions. So many people who have seen on-set pictures have commented on how professional the entire production looked. It was, largely because of the team that we assembled, with individuals from Pittsburgh, New York and Los Angeles all working on the film. In addition to making the film, we also had to deal with several crises, including constant trains, a near-medical emergency, and having to kick out a graduation party! From the top down, everyone knocked it out of the park, and I am ever-so-grateful for the sheer talent involved with this project. When people watch the final cut, I’m confident they will watch knowing that everyone involved kicked ass at their role.
Bottom line: Research your crew, trust your gut on who you choose to be involved. A rising tide lifts all boats.
2) Extras go the extra mile. Two scenes required 10-20 extras, often enduring long hours, varying weather, and waiting around. While some were strangers, most of the extras were friends I’ve known for years. I knew this, was cognizant of this, and so I often was defensive of their time and involvement. I never wanted to take their goodwill or extension of time for granted. Being an extra is hard, and it’s a lot of commitment for little return. My friends knew this, participated anyways, and (hopefully?) had an enjoyable time. But if you ever are relying on your friends/family to serve as extras in your film, you’d be wise to show them the same consideration that you show the rest of your cast and crew, or it could sour relationships long after production has wrapped.
Bottom line: Your friends and family want to help, so don’t make them regret it.
3) Count on people, but don’t rely on them. There is a difference. It’s not unexpected that with an independent production like Gala, there would be ‘AWOL risk’ if bigger opportunities arose. A week before we shot, one of our crew members bowed out of production (very respectfully) due to landing a nice gig on the TV show Banshee. Brandon (Director of Photography) and I had to scramble to find a replacement in just a few days (and we found a great one!), but it was an unforeseen last-minute task thrown on a pile of 1,000 others. On the opposite side of the spectrum, another crew member who committed to the project in March completely stopped responding to our emails and messages around early April. I tried to be as respective of their time as possible, giving them the benefit of the doubt, ensuring that they were just busy and not great communicators. Brandon’s viewpoint was more grounded in reality, and he probably sensed way earlier that this guy might be a no-show. I waited as long as I could, messaged him in every communication possible before we had to find a replacement (this time, ~2 weeks before production). Again, we lucked out with the end-result, but it also left me in a difficult position with little leverage.
Bottom line: It’s great to be polite and accommodating, but at some point, you have to be prepared to cut the cord early to avoid last-minute rushes.
4) Wearing too many hats makes it hard to see. As writer, director and producer, Gala’s production quality (not the film itself) fell squarely on my shoulders. I was intricately involved in every decision made, and found it difficult to delegate certain tasks that probably were best suited for other people. Even on set, when I tried to keep my primary focus on the actors and the performances, I found it almost impossible to remove my ‘producer’ hat during times it would have really benefited me. As a result, I imagine that Amadeo and Samantha (our actors) probably felt underserved, which certainly wasn’t my goal. But even with an awesome Assistant Director, being the sole person financially and legally responsible for anything that could go wrong meant that my ‘director’s vision’ was sometimes compromised, because I was worried about unforeseen expenses, or that equipment 100 yards away from me might collapse and break.
Bottom line: You can’t do it all. Have at least one person intricately involved in production logistics so you can ‘let go’ on set.
5) Run an awesome campaign. I boasted to everyone on set that, even if this film completely falls apart, that I can look back and say that Gala’s Kickstarter campaign was a huge success. Thanks in large part to help from industry friends, Gala attracted backers from all across the country, whose charity and support made the entire film possible. That humbleness bled through the entire production, as I always reminded myself “Complete strangers put their faith in this project, and in you.”
Bottom line: Never take your backers for granted; there are a million projects they can contribute their hard-earned money to. If they’re giving it to you to create a great product, deliver on that promise.
6) First impressions matter. They really do. As a professional, it’s good to remember that because they are hard to break.
Bottom line: Don’t be a dick.
7) Learn how to communicate. Not psychologically or emotionally, but you are hurting yourself if you can’t articulate exactly what you want and need from each department on set. I imagine most people on the set of Gala found my directorial style aloof or indecisive. I can’t argue, but it was less a conscious decision and more a result from a complete lack of experience on any large productions in a similar capacity. I’ve written many shorts, and produced a couple smaller ones, but this effectively marks what I would consider my directorial debut. And while I can say that I thoroughly understood each word of dialogue, its subtext, the themes, and the atmospheres that I was looking for, several components of production were so outside of my scope that I couldn’t possibly comment with any authority, creating several awkward moments on set. Our Assistant Director provided comforting words that it’s not necessarily the director’s job to know each and every intricacy surrounding items like lighting in order to direct the film. To an extent that’s true (which is why I lucked out with an amazing Director of Photography), but I certainly underprepared how important it was to always be decisive, especially when time is a factor.
Bottom line: Don’t be afraid to say “I don’t know” if you just don’t know. Better to have no understanding of something than full understanding of nothing.
8) Accept that motivations are varied. That’s not a criticism, but a basic rule of thumb. Some people were involved with Gala because they liked the script and saw promise in its idea. Others came to help simply because they love being a part of film sets, or wanted another IMDB credit. Others just want their money and want to go home. As a writer/director, it’s important to remember that it's likely no one will share that same level of passion for a project that you do, and so you shouldn’t expect that everyone around you is willing to exhibit the same level of enthusiasm. With Gala, as stated above, I was extremely fortunate to be surrounded by an amazing group of talented individuals; but in the end, I hope that everyone feels as if there was a mutual exchange of benefits. I didn't want people to feel like they gave more than they received. So if you’re looking to shoot a short film on a zero budget, and don’t have the means to keep your cast and crew happy, don’t expect the same output.
Bottom line: Be cognizant that your 12 months of planning has zero effect or authority on anyone else.
9) Learn to budget. By far, my biggest mistake with Gala is that I didn’t properly budget all of the necessary expenses needed to execute the film. My mind was ingrained with our previous film “The Gate Agent”, and the resources needed for that particular project. Gala was always going to be bigger, harder, and larger in scope. Not preparing for that meant that my initial $4,500 Kickstarter goal was dramatically lower than what was needed. The result was an inordinate amount of out-of-pocket spending on my end. I won’t go into exact figures, but it’s enough that I can say with full transparency that – had I known how much I under budgeted – either the Kickstarter would have been much higher (and likely not met), or I would have never followed through with the project. I hate saying that, I truly do. But this film has taken a toll on me in more ways than one. Personally, I manage stress well, and excel in managing large tasks, but those are solitary acts. When you’re married, every dollar you spend is a dollar your spouse spends too. And though my wife Gabrielle fully supports this film and my dream to follow it through, it was never fair to pull her along for something that has constituted so much time, effort, and money.
Bottom line: Be prepared to walk away if your project has spiraled out of control. You’re not ‘pot-committed’ unless you choose to be. Which brings me to…
10) MVP award goes to Gabrielle. Now, I don’t want to diminish the work of the rest of the cast and crew. But over the course of the last eight months, from the moment I thought about creating a Kickstarter to our final ‘that’s a wrap!’, she has had to endure me personally through every step of the process: my freakouts, doubts, concerns, stress, fears. And on set, she almost single-handedly fed the entire cast and crew (including all of the extras!), working in our kitchen for nearly 100 hours straight, all while hosting three out-of-town people in our house. It’s no surprise that everyone loved Gabrielle (who doesn’t?), and apart from some unfortunate comments I learned about later, everyone was satisfied with the terrific work she did as Crafty.
Bottom line: Marry a saint.
I have about 1,000 more items I could probably list, some more brutally honest than others. I’m sure people can list theirs about the film and me. And while I’m tempted to dive into certain things, just as an effort to document my frustrations throughout the entire process, I’ll save that temptation for another day. I’m proud of the work everyone’s done on this film, and even more excited to really dive into post-production. Was it a perfect process? No. Are there things I’d change? Yeah, about 1,000. Would I do it all over again? Probably not. But it’s funny that something that I probably consider the biggest mistake of my entire life is also something I’ve pondered, prepared and strategized for every day for nearly half a year. I truly hope that the final product satisfies viewers and our backers, but it’ll be impossible for me – as the only person involved from concept to finish – to view it as anything other than an incredibly frustrating, sometimes fulfilling, learning experience.
That’s a wrap folks. It’s been eight days since our last ‘cut!’, and my out-of-town guests fled back to New York City. Normal sleep has been restored, and I’ve finally had a chance to truly reflect on this mind-blowing experience. While the six months of pre-production planning were stressful but highly-organized, those four days - hopping from set-to-set, sleeping (at most) three hours a night on my couch, running on chocolate Teddy Grahams - could only be described as pure chaos. Others may have felt differently, but for me, those four days all run on one blurry, linear tangent, and it’s amazing that we somehow were able to pull it off. As a writer, director, and producer of the film, I’ve learned about a million things throughout this process (with a million more to come in post). Today though, I thought I’d share the top 10 takeaways for me, as well as some additional tips to aspiring filmmakers looking to make a short film on an actual budget:
1) Assemble a great team. Holy Ba-Jesus did Gala have an amazing cast and crew. And I’m talking both in their efficiency on set as well as just pure talent in their positions. So many people who have seen on-set pictures have commented on how professional the entire production looked. It was, largely because of the team that we assembled, with individuals from Pittsburgh, New York and Los Angeles all working on the film. In addition to making the film, we also had to deal with several crises, including constant trains, a near-medical emergency, and having to kick out a graduation party! From the top down, everyone knocked it out of the park, and I am ever-so-grateful for the sheer talent involved with this project. When people watch the final cut, I’m confident they will watch knowing that everyone involved kicked ass at their role.
Bottom line: Research your crew, trust your gut on who you choose to be involved. A rising tide lifts all boats.
2) Extras go the extra mile. Two scenes required 10-20 extras, often enduring long hours, varying weather, and waiting around. While some were strangers, most of the extras were friends I’ve known for years. I knew this, was cognizant of this, and so I often was defensive of their time and involvement. I never wanted to take their goodwill or extension of time for granted. Being an extra is hard, and it’s a lot of commitment for little return. My friends knew this, participated anyways, and (hopefully?) had an enjoyable time. But if you ever are relying on your friends/family to serve as extras in your film, you’d be wise to show them the same consideration that you show the rest of your cast and crew, or it could sour relationships long after production has wrapped.
Bottom line: Your friends and family want to help, so don’t make them regret it.
3) Count on people, but don’t rely on them. There is a difference. It’s not unexpected that with an independent production like Gala, there would be ‘AWOL risk’ if bigger opportunities arose. A week before we shot, one of our crew members bowed out of production (very respectfully) due to landing a nice gig on the TV show Banshee. Brandon (Director of Photography) and I had to scramble to find a replacement in just a few days (and we found a great one!), but it was an unforeseen last-minute task thrown on a pile of 1,000 others. On the opposite side of the spectrum, another crew member who committed to the project in March completely stopped responding to our emails and messages around early April. I tried to be as respective of their time as possible, giving them the benefit of the doubt, ensuring that they were just busy and not great communicators. Brandon’s viewpoint was more grounded in reality, and he probably sensed way earlier that this guy might be a no-show. I waited as long as I could, messaged him in every communication possible before we had to find a replacement (this time, ~2 weeks before production). Again, we lucked out with the end-result, but it also left me in a difficult position with little leverage.
Bottom line: It’s great to be polite and accommodating, but at some point, you have to be prepared to cut the cord early to avoid last-minute rushes.
4) Wearing too many hats makes it hard to see. As writer, director and producer, Gala’s production quality (not the film itself) fell squarely on my shoulders. I was intricately involved in every decision made, and found it difficult to delegate certain tasks that probably were best suited for other people. Even on set, when I tried to keep my primary focus on the actors and the performances, I found it almost impossible to remove my ‘producer’ hat during times it would have really benefited me. As a result, I imagine that Amadeo and Samantha (our actors) probably felt underserved, which certainly wasn’t my goal. But even with an awesome Assistant Director, being the sole person financially and legally responsible for anything that could go wrong meant that my ‘director’s vision’ was sometimes compromised, because I was worried about unforeseen expenses, or that equipment 100 yards away from me might collapse and break.
Bottom line: You can’t do it all. Have at least one person intricately involved in production logistics so you can ‘let go’ on set.
5) Run an awesome campaign. I boasted to everyone on set that, even if this film completely falls apart, that I can look back and say that Gala’s Kickstarter campaign was a huge success. Thanks in large part to help from industry friends, Gala attracted backers from all across the country, whose charity and support made the entire film possible. That humbleness bled through the entire production, as I always reminded myself “Complete strangers put their faith in this project, and in you.”
Bottom line: Never take your backers for granted; there are a million projects they can contribute their hard-earned money to. If they’re giving it to you to create a great product, deliver on that promise.
6) First impressions matter. They really do. As a professional, it’s good to remember that because they are hard to break.
Bottom line: Don’t be a dick.
7) Learn how to communicate. Not psychologically or emotionally, but you are hurting yourself if you can’t articulate exactly what you want and need from each department on set. I imagine most people on the set of Gala found my directorial style aloof or indecisive. I can’t argue, but it was less a conscious decision and more a result from a complete lack of experience on any large productions in a similar capacity. I’ve written many shorts, and produced a couple smaller ones, but this effectively marks what I would consider my directorial debut. And while I can say that I thoroughly understood each word of dialogue, its subtext, the themes, and the atmospheres that I was looking for, several components of production were so outside of my scope that I couldn’t possibly comment with any authority, creating several awkward moments on set. Our Assistant Director provided comforting words that it’s not necessarily the director’s job to know each and every intricacy surrounding items like lighting in order to direct the film. To an extent that’s true (which is why I lucked out with an amazing Director of Photography), but I certainly underprepared how important it was to always be decisive, especially when time is a factor.
Bottom line: Don’t be afraid to say “I don’t know” if you just don’t know. Better to have no understanding of something than full understanding of nothing.
8) Accept that motivations are varied. That’s not a criticism, but a basic rule of thumb. Some people were involved with Gala because they liked the script and saw promise in its idea. Others came to help simply because they love being a part of film sets, or wanted another IMDB credit. Others just want their money and want to go home. As a writer/director, it’s important to remember that it's likely no one will share that same level of passion for a project that you do, and so you shouldn’t expect that everyone around you is willing to exhibit the same level of enthusiasm. With Gala, as stated above, I was extremely fortunate to be surrounded by an amazing group of talented individuals; but in the end, I hope that everyone feels as if there was a mutual exchange of benefits. I didn't want people to feel like they gave more than they received. So if you’re looking to shoot a short film on a zero budget, and don’t have the means to keep your cast and crew happy, don’t expect the same output.
Bottom line: Be cognizant that your 12 months of planning has zero effect or authority on anyone else.
9) Learn to budget. By far, my biggest mistake with Gala is that I didn’t properly budget all of the necessary expenses needed to execute the film. My mind was ingrained with our previous film “The Gate Agent”, and the resources needed for that particular project. Gala was always going to be bigger, harder, and larger in scope. Not preparing for that meant that my initial $4,500 Kickstarter goal was dramatically lower than what was needed. The result was an inordinate amount of out-of-pocket spending on my end. I won’t go into exact figures, but it’s enough that I can say with full transparency that – had I known how much I under budgeted – either the Kickstarter would have been much higher (and likely not met), or I would have never followed through with the project. I hate saying that, I truly do. But this film has taken a toll on me in more ways than one. Personally, I manage stress well, and excel in managing large tasks, but those are solitary acts. When you’re married, every dollar you spend is a dollar your spouse spends too. And though my wife Gabrielle fully supports this film and my dream to follow it through, it was never fair to pull her along for something that has constituted so much time, effort, and money.
Bottom line: Be prepared to walk away if your project has spiraled out of control. You’re not ‘pot-committed’ unless you choose to be. Which brings me to…
10) MVP award goes to Gabrielle. Now, I don’t want to diminish the work of the rest of the cast and crew. But over the course of the last eight months, from the moment I thought about creating a Kickstarter to our final ‘that’s a wrap!’, she has had to endure me personally through every step of the process: my freakouts, doubts, concerns, stress, fears. And on set, she almost single-handedly fed the entire cast and crew (including all of the extras!), working in our kitchen for nearly 100 hours straight, all while hosting three out-of-town people in our house. It’s no surprise that everyone loved Gabrielle (who doesn’t?), and apart from some unfortunate comments I learned about later, everyone was satisfied with the terrific work she did as Crafty.
Bottom line: Marry a saint.
I have about 1,000 more items I could probably list, some more brutally honest than others. I’m sure people can list theirs about the film and me. And while I’m tempted to dive into certain things, just as an effort to document my frustrations throughout the entire process, I’ll save that temptation for another day. I’m proud of the work everyone’s done on this film, and even more excited to really dive into post-production. Was it a perfect process? No. Are there things I’d change? Yeah, about 1,000. Would I do it all over again? Probably not. But it’s funny that something that I probably consider the biggest mistake of my entire life is also something I’ve pondered, prepared and strategized for every day for nearly half a year. I truly hope that the final product satisfies viewers and our backers, but it’ll be impossible for me – as the only person involved from concept to finish – to view it as anything other than an incredibly frustrating, sometimes fulfilling, learning experience.
The Funny Thing About Death
April 21, 2015
I’ve often thought about writing about the events surrounding my grandmother’s passing, an event so foggy in some ways yet so abundantly clear in others. I’ll often flash back to a moment in time in the weeks and days prior to her death, that I wondered if I could ever articulate exactly how I felt. On the brink of its one-year anniversary, I thought I’d try. It’s not that it’s taken a year to grieve, or that it’s too painful, but rather, enough time has passed that I can appreciate how unique this situation was to both me and my family.
My paternal grandmother was my only grandparent really; my mom’s parents both died before I was born, and my father’s father more or less abandoned the scene decades ago. I have vague memories of meeting him once as a child on a brief return to Pittsburgh, but they’re not something I recall well (or particularly wish to). No, my grandma was it, and so she filled a large void that most children take for granted, the ones who are blessed to have multiple grandparents, finding something different and special to love about each. Given that my father was one of six kids, that meant a ton of grandchildren – ten, to be exact – to spread her love around to. My older brother and I were her first, which sparks a saying my brother jokingly reminds me of even to this day: “She may love us equally, but she’s loved me the longest.” Growing up, I spent way more time with her than most children do. For a couple years after my parents divorced, she even lived with us (yes, that’s right, my mother lived with her ex mother-in-law, two young children, and even an ex-brother-in-law). When I tell strangers that, I always get odd looks, but that’s just how we operated. Our two families were so intertwined that something like a ‘divorce’ was unlikely going to create any long-term friction.
Even when we moved out in 1991, we lived only streets apart. My grandmother would often pick me up from school and take me back to her house, where I’d subject her to multiple rounds of board games I hoped to one day master. I always won. I could never discern whether I was actually better than her, or if she just let me win because of how excited I became. Not that it mattered. Still, the opinion I shaped of my grandmother was that she was more than just loving and nurturing, but cool. Cooler than all the other grandmas. She didn’t sew in a rocking chair or play Bingo every Monday; she watched Sportscenter and talked over/unders. Her blood ran green with love for Notre Dame, and it would sincerely bum her out any time the Fighting Irish lost a big game.
She was one of the few who called me “Michael”, and had such a distinct way of saying it, that it often sounded like “My-goal” every time she answered the phone. She attended every birthday party, every graduation, and somehow never missed an important event of ours, no matter what else she needed to balance in her busy life. And busy it was! I nicknamed her Social Butterfly. She had moved to a Senior Center when I was a teenager, and became one of the cool, popular kids on the 7th floor. The residents all loved Marilyn, her witty comebacks, her “Don’t-take-no-shit” sass, the visible admiration her kids and grandkids had for her since she was always getting visitors. And even as the years went on, and she lost two of her siblings, the thought of her actually dying never crossed my mind. She was like Superman; nothing could get this woman down. But that all changed last winter.
Thinking back, I can’t even remember what the first series of symptoms were that prompted her to go to the emergency room. I remember her first major hospital visit was a brief stint at UPMC East. She would eventually relocate to multiple hospitals and departments before finding her ‘primary’ spot at UPMC Shadyside. So many long corridors, musty rooms, candy-filled vending machines blur together, even today. The only consistent attributes throughout that process were inconsistency and confusion. Doctors kept referencing internal bleeding that couldn’t be controlled, but day-to-day their focus would shift to a different body part or troubled organ. One day, her body was filling up with too much fluid; the next, her kidneys weren’t functioning properly. “But don’t worry, we can still try this, this, and this.” Getting straight answers was like pulling teeth. And what’s worse is that information was always filtered through whichever one of us happened to be there at that point in time. We all hear what we want to hear, and we have ways of blocking out or accentuating the information that support our own biases. It’s not a deliberate fault, but human nature. But with so many of us, getting up-to-date medical news was like playing Telephone. Still, when she was eventually discharged to a rehab facility one night, we thought we were on the long road to recovery. But it didn’t last long, not even a full day, before she was back in ICU.
She had apparently stopped breathing overnight, and needed resuscitated. I remember getting a message at five in the morning that she was on a ventilator. Was this the end? Were we in her final moments? I rushed to the hospital, where her children and some of her grandchildren were already gathered in a tiny waiting room in ICU. Nobody talked, nobody moved. We just waited. A doctor eventually came in, where we allowed him to briefly speak before pummeling him with questions, most of which were not answered in the direct manner you’d hope for in that situation. We all interpreted things differently. Our reactions evoked the entire emotional spectrum, ranging from hope, to fear, to confusion, to faith. Frankly, I had a hard time believing anything coming out of the Doctor’s mouth; I sensed that he was holding back key information and skirting the reality of the situation. I asked my father “Do I need to mentally prepare for the fact that she is going to die?” He opined that there could still be light at the end of the tunnel, but then eventually said “Yes.” I admired my father’s straight-talk, which I think was rooted in the unique relationship he had with his mother. He called her “Marilyn”, and always joked of their “business relationship”, partly because as the oldest of her children, he had left home for the military when some of his siblings were still younger. Regardless, to us all, she was the Smith family’s matriarch and she was inches from death.
Grandma made it past the ventilator, which was eventually removed (an experience described as incredibly painful and heart wrenching), but she never left the hospital again. She remained mostly in ICU, in a room pretty sizeable compared to others. For weeks, we’d all continually visit, sporting our required surgical gloves and gowns required for all visitors. We rarely (if ever) adhered to their maximum number of occupants allowed in the room at once, and multiple nurses commented on the exponential number of visitors she received compared to some of the other patients. Her room was like a revolving door of kids, grandkids, cousins, spouses, and friends. For a brief moment, I thought there might be a hope she’d make it out. After all, she acted like herself most of the time, cracking jokes and sometimes making fun of her own situation. But there was still the bleeding, and despite test after test, infusion after infusion, the blood loss could not be stopped. This eventually morphed into complications with other organs, and eventually we all knew we were at a crossroads, and that a life of continuous blood infusions was not feasible, either logistically or morally. Someone threw out the ‘H’ word, and from there, I realized that we had officially begun planning for the end.
My grandma was moved into hospice on a Friday night. She had received her last blood transfusion (where a doctor inappropriately commented that she was getting ‘topped off’ with blood), and the entire family was present just hours before she’d be relocated. Someone snapped the last photo she’d ever take with her six children all present (above), a picture I’ll cherish for the rest of my life. She arrived at hospice in the evening; the experience was overwhelming for me, as I had never visited a facility like that before. Unlike hospitals, there were no loud beeps, doctors and nurses rushing down the corridors, or a general sense of urgency around every corner. The place was serene, peaceful, and truly employed their motto of ‘comfort first’. Her room was huge and accommodating, but I didn’t want to get used to it. They had estimated that it could be anywhere from hours to a week before her body eventually gave out. Most of us stayed overnight that weekend because leaving for the day meant we could lose our ability to say goodbye. I didn’t want to receive any more phone calls. I didn’t want to go home. Whether or not the rest of my family felt the exact same way as I did, I can’t say; but I’m certain that us all being gathered together during those final few days was comforting.
For several days, her health and awareness level varied significantly. She’d rotate from calm to irrational to asleep in the blink of an eye. One day, she was angry at everyone, which I learned was a natural response to her situation. Not that it helped. I began to see the humanity slowly drip away, until eventually she was nearly always asleep, her only sign of life being the movements in her chest indicating she was still breathing. On Thursday evening, several of her children, my brother, my cousin Sarah and I were gathered in her room, as she lay in the bed, nearly motionless. My aunt made a comment that she believed this night was going to be it, and even to this day I felt that she had sensed her death coming first. It was dark outside, quiet in the room, and we all gathered around her. My aunt recommended a prayer – not because we were all religious – but because she was, and it’s what she would have wanted. We gathered our hands and prayed, and when it was over, my eyes remained locked on her face. Minutes went by. Breath, breath, breath and then all of the sudden: no more. I watched, as this woman I loved took her last breath on Earth. At first no one moved, until my aunt clutched her and started to cry. We knew it had happened, but I never thought I would have actually witnessed it like this. People began crying, and hugging. I remember hugging Sarah, which was extremely painful. Sarah was a nurse in this same hospital, and was often more subjected to seeing her suffer than anyone. I called my wife on the phone and told her she passed, but I was calmer than I thought I should have been. I felt like I was recapping my day, like it was business as usual. I never cried. At the time, I couldn’t figure out why.
The day of the funeral, I, along with my older brother and several cousins were pallbearers, a stark reminder that I would be among the small group who would officially place my grandmother’s casket in her new place of rest. As pallbearers, you have to follow explicit instructions – when to lift, when to set down, when to walk, when to stop – so much that it treats the entire service like a mechanical factory. Any sense of formality was eliminated though when we approached the church, and a Scottish bagpipes player began playing Amazing Grace. I stood next to my cousin Colin, 19 at the time but incredibly mature, crying. It was that moment - seeing his tears and the tears of countless others, and knowing that I had none – when I finally realized why I appeared so calm. Because I didn’t view her death as a tragedy. She lived a long life, was beloved by everyone, and bestowed millions of memories on her friends and family. I didn’t miss my Grandma now as much as I knew I would miss her at certain milestones in my future. The birth of my children. If I ever ‘make it big’. But I had zero regrets about our time together and relationship as grandmother/son, and there’s nothing I would have changed.
Now that a year has passed, there are things I miss. Like our lunch talks, when I would call her after stepping away from the office. She always wanted to know what was going on in my life, and I wanted to know what was going on in hers. Our conversations weren’t extensive, but just the right amount that we both needed from each other. She never wanted me to forget that even though I was a full-fledged adult, married, sporting a suit and tie, that she was still my grandma, and the same woman who used to pick me up from elementary school. Since her funeral, I’ve only visited the cemetery twice, once to see the lot and once to see the headstone. It’s not that I don’t care, but I have no desire to treat cemetery plots as a place to reconnect with lost loved ones. My memories of her were engraved in my home, in hers, at my aunt’s house during our annual Christmas gatherings; I feel greater nostalgia in these places than I do passing a strange set of scenery in lower Monroeville. But when I miss her most is when I have to tell my younger cousins “Your grandma used to do this” or “Your grandma used to do that’, since some wouldn’t have the longevity of a relationship that I was able to cultivate, simply because I was older. That makes me sad.
So what is the funny thing about death? That the medical industry contains some of the most brilliant minds of the world, yet botches so many basic rules of communication with their patients. Her official cause of death was Cirrhosis of the liver (ironic considering she barely drank), though we’re all in agreement that the problems surrounding her internal bleeding were much deeper than that, and that this was just a label on an unsolved problem. That hospice care – serving as the last station on the train to death – actually can provide the most comforting surroundings. Those workers are angels and should be treated as such; it’s not an easy job to surround yourself with death every single day and to do so with as much compassion as they do. That a dozen people can hear the same prognosis and interpret it entirely differently. And that those same people each have unique ways of handling the grieving process, whether it be through their own strength or through their faith. Our coping mechanisms and relationships are so unique that it’s impossible to have one person’s death affect one the same way as another. That’s what makes us human. When I think about that all, I can’t help but find it humorous. And you know what? She’d be the first one to laugh.
I’ve often thought about writing about the events surrounding my grandmother’s passing, an event so foggy in some ways yet so abundantly clear in others. I’ll often flash back to a moment in time in the weeks and days prior to her death, that I wondered if I could ever articulate exactly how I felt. On the brink of its one-year anniversary, I thought I’d try. It’s not that it’s taken a year to grieve, or that it’s too painful, but rather, enough time has passed that I can appreciate how unique this situation was to both me and my family.
My paternal grandmother was my only grandparent really; my mom’s parents both died before I was born, and my father’s father more or less abandoned the scene decades ago. I have vague memories of meeting him once as a child on a brief return to Pittsburgh, but they’re not something I recall well (or particularly wish to). No, my grandma was it, and so she filled a large void that most children take for granted, the ones who are blessed to have multiple grandparents, finding something different and special to love about each. Given that my father was one of six kids, that meant a ton of grandchildren – ten, to be exact – to spread her love around to. My older brother and I were her first, which sparks a saying my brother jokingly reminds me of even to this day: “She may love us equally, but she’s loved me the longest.” Growing up, I spent way more time with her than most children do. For a couple years after my parents divorced, she even lived with us (yes, that’s right, my mother lived with her ex mother-in-law, two young children, and even an ex-brother-in-law). When I tell strangers that, I always get odd looks, but that’s just how we operated. Our two families were so intertwined that something like a ‘divorce’ was unlikely going to create any long-term friction.
Even when we moved out in 1991, we lived only streets apart. My grandmother would often pick me up from school and take me back to her house, where I’d subject her to multiple rounds of board games I hoped to one day master. I always won. I could never discern whether I was actually better than her, or if she just let me win because of how excited I became. Not that it mattered. Still, the opinion I shaped of my grandmother was that she was more than just loving and nurturing, but cool. Cooler than all the other grandmas. She didn’t sew in a rocking chair or play Bingo every Monday; she watched Sportscenter and talked over/unders. Her blood ran green with love for Notre Dame, and it would sincerely bum her out any time the Fighting Irish lost a big game.
She was one of the few who called me “Michael”, and had such a distinct way of saying it, that it often sounded like “My-goal” every time she answered the phone. She attended every birthday party, every graduation, and somehow never missed an important event of ours, no matter what else she needed to balance in her busy life. And busy it was! I nicknamed her Social Butterfly. She had moved to a Senior Center when I was a teenager, and became one of the cool, popular kids on the 7th floor. The residents all loved Marilyn, her witty comebacks, her “Don’t-take-no-shit” sass, the visible admiration her kids and grandkids had for her since she was always getting visitors. And even as the years went on, and she lost two of her siblings, the thought of her actually dying never crossed my mind. She was like Superman; nothing could get this woman down. But that all changed last winter.
Thinking back, I can’t even remember what the first series of symptoms were that prompted her to go to the emergency room. I remember her first major hospital visit was a brief stint at UPMC East. She would eventually relocate to multiple hospitals and departments before finding her ‘primary’ spot at UPMC Shadyside. So many long corridors, musty rooms, candy-filled vending machines blur together, even today. The only consistent attributes throughout that process were inconsistency and confusion. Doctors kept referencing internal bleeding that couldn’t be controlled, but day-to-day their focus would shift to a different body part or troubled organ. One day, her body was filling up with too much fluid; the next, her kidneys weren’t functioning properly. “But don’t worry, we can still try this, this, and this.” Getting straight answers was like pulling teeth. And what’s worse is that information was always filtered through whichever one of us happened to be there at that point in time. We all hear what we want to hear, and we have ways of blocking out or accentuating the information that support our own biases. It’s not a deliberate fault, but human nature. But with so many of us, getting up-to-date medical news was like playing Telephone. Still, when she was eventually discharged to a rehab facility one night, we thought we were on the long road to recovery. But it didn’t last long, not even a full day, before she was back in ICU.
She had apparently stopped breathing overnight, and needed resuscitated. I remember getting a message at five in the morning that she was on a ventilator. Was this the end? Were we in her final moments? I rushed to the hospital, where her children and some of her grandchildren were already gathered in a tiny waiting room in ICU. Nobody talked, nobody moved. We just waited. A doctor eventually came in, where we allowed him to briefly speak before pummeling him with questions, most of which were not answered in the direct manner you’d hope for in that situation. We all interpreted things differently. Our reactions evoked the entire emotional spectrum, ranging from hope, to fear, to confusion, to faith. Frankly, I had a hard time believing anything coming out of the Doctor’s mouth; I sensed that he was holding back key information and skirting the reality of the situation. I asked my father “Do I need to mentally prepare for the fact that she is going to die?” He opined that there could still be light at the end of the tunnel, but then eventually said “Yes.” I admired my father’s straight-talk, which I think was rooted in the unique relationship he had with his mother. He called her “Marilyn”, and always joked of their “business relationship”, partly because as the oldest of her children, he had left home for the military when some of his siblings were still younger. Regardless, to us all, she was the Smith family’s matriarch and she was inches from death.
Grandma made it past the ventilator, which was eventually removed (an experience described as incredibly painful and heart wrenching), but she never left the hospital again. She remained mostly in ICU, in a room pretty sizeable compared to others. For weeks, we’d all continually visit, sporting our required surgical gloves and gowns required for all visitors. We rarely (if ever) adhered to their maximum number of occupants allowed in the room at once, and multiple nurses commented on the exponential number of visitors she received compared to some of the other patients. Her room was like a revolving door of kids, grandkids, cousins, spouses, and friends. For a brief moment, I thought there might be a hope she’d make it out. After all, she acted like herself most of the time, cracking jokes and sometimes making fun of her own situation. But there was still the bleeding, and despite test after test, infusion after infusion, the blood loss could not be stopped. This eventually morphed into complications with other organs, and eventually we all knew we were at a crossroads, and that a life of continuous blood infusions was not feasible, either logistically or morally. Someone threw out the ‘H’ word, and from there, I realized that we had officially begun planning for the end.
My grandma was moved into hospice on a Friday night. She had received her last blood transfusion (where a doctor inappropriately commented that she was getting ‘topped off’ with blood), and the entire family was present just hours before she’d be relocated. Someone snapped the last photo she’d ever take with her six children all present (above), a picture I’ll cherish for the rest of my life. She arrived at hospice in the evening; the experience was overwhelming for me, as I had never visited a facility like that before. Unlike hospitals, there were no loud beeps, doctors and nurses rushing down the corridors, or a general sense of urgency around every corner. The place was serene, peaceful, and truly employed their motto of ‘comfort first’. Her room was huge and accommodating, but I didn’t want to get used to it. They had estimated that it could be anywhere from hours to a week before her body eventually gave out. Most of us stayed overnight that weekend because leaving for the day meant we could lose our ability to say goodbye. I didn’t want to receive any more phone calls. I didn’t want to go home. Whether or not the rest of my family felt the exact same way as I did, I can’t say; but I’m certain that us all being gathered together during those final few days was comforting.
For several days, her health and awareness level varied significantly. She’d rotate from calm to irrational to asleep in the blink of an eye. One day, she was angry at everyone, which I learned was a natural response to her situation. Not that it helped. I began to see the humanity slowly drip away, until eventually she was nearly always asleep, her only sign of life being the movements in her chest indicating she was still breathing. On Thursday evening, several of her children, my brother, my cousin Sarah and I were gathered in her room, as she lay in the bed, nearly motionless. My aunt made a comment that she believed this night was going to be it, and even to this day I felt that she had sensed her death coming first. It was dark outside, quiet in the room, and we all gathered around her. My aunt recommended a prayer – not because we were all religious – but because she was, and it’s what she would have wanted. We gathered our hands and prayed, and when it was over, my eyes remained locked on her face. Minutes went by. Breath, breath, breath and then all of the sudden: no more. I watched, as this woman I loved took her last breath on Earth. At first no one moved, until my aunt clutched her and started to cry. We knew it had happened, but I never thought I would have actually witnessed it like this. People began crying, and hugging. I remember hugging Sarah, which was extremely painful. Sarah was a nurse in this same hospital, and was often more subjected to seeing her suffer than anyone. I called my wife on the phone and told her she passed, but I was calmer than I thought I should have been. I felt like I was recapping my day, like it was business as usual. I never cried. At the time, I couldn’t figure out why.
The day of the funeral, I, along with my older brother and several cousins were pallbearers, a stark reminder that I would be among the small group who would officially place my grandmother’s casket in her new place of rest. As pallbearers, you have to follow explicit instructions – when to lift, when to set down, when to walk, when to stop – so much that it treats the entire service like a mechanical factory. Any sense of formality was eliminated though when we approached the church, and a Scottish bagpipes player began playing Amazing Grace. I stood next to my cousin Colin, 19 at the time but incredibly mature, crying. It was that moment - seeing his tears and the tears of countless others, and knowing that I had none – when I finally realized why I appeared so calm. Because I didn’t view her death as a tragedy. She lived a long life, was beloved by everyone, and bestowed millions of memories on her friends and family. I didn’t miss my Grandma now as much as I knew I would miss her at certain milestones in my future. The birth of my children. If I ever ‘make it big’. But I had zero regrets about our time together and relationship as grandmother/son, and there’s nothing I would have changed.
Now that a year has passed, there are things I miss. Like our lunch talks, when I would call her after stepping away from the office. She always wanted to know what was going on in my life, and I wanted to know what was going on in hers. Our conversations weren’t extensive, but just the right amount that we both needed from each other. She never wanted me to forget that even though I was a full-fledged adult, married, sporting a suit and tie, that she was still my grandma, and the same woman who used to pick me up from elementary school. Since her funeral, I’ve only visited the cemetery twice, once to see the lot and once to see the headstone. It’s not that I don’t care, but I have no desire to treat cemetery plots as a place to reconnect with lost loved ones. My memories of her were engraved in my home, in hers, at my aunt’s house during our annual Christmas gatherings; I feel greater nostalgia in these places than I do passing a strange set of scenery in lower Monroeville. But when I miss her most is when I have to tell my younger cousins “Your grandma used to do this” or “Your grandma used to do that’, since some wouldn’t have the longevity of a relationship that I was able to cultivate, simply because I was older. That makes me sad.
So what is the funny thing about death? That the medical industry contains some of the most brilliant minds of the world, yet botches so many basic rules of communication with their patients. Her official cause of death was Cirrhosis of the liver (ironic considering she barely drank), though we’re all in agreement that the problems surrounding her internal bleeding were much deeper than that, and that this was just a label on an unsolved problem. That hospice care – serving as the last station on the train to death – actually can provide the most comforting surroundings. Those workers are angels and should be treated as such; it’s not an easy job to surround yourself with death every single day and to do so with as much compassion as they do. That a dozen people can hear the same prognosis and interpret it entirely differently. And that those same people each have unique ways of handling the grieving process, whether it be through their own strength or through their faith. Our coping mechanisms and relationships are so unique that it’s impossible to have one person’s death affect one the same way as another. That’s what makes us human. When I think about that all, I can’t help but find it humorous. And you know what? She’d be the first one to laugh.
29 - Presence Unknown
February 4, 2015
My brilliant friend and writer Sarah Jacobs recently published a wonderful recap of transitioning to life in her 30s on the Huffington Post. It’s a blog that stuck with me, even though my wise friend is two years ahead in age and lightyears ahead in her craft. I urge you all to read it. She embraced the new decade in open arms, allowing her 20s to remain part of her history but not a time she cares to revisit. She captures the essence of the ‘milestone birthday’ perfectly. But for me, 30 seems more like the starting/finish line to a mental state, whereas 29 – a birthday coming up soon for me – feels more like a year-long pressure cooker set to 'low'.
I’ll likely look back at 2014 (28) as the “year of momentum”. My comedic writing expanded to include writing for several large comedic events, including my first national television gig last week. I also published Miss Mezzanine, a book that critics seem to enjoy but more importantly has really spoken to some people who've read it. It touches me beyond belief that my words have connected with people the way they have. And finally, after an exhausting Kickstarter campaign (and successful - thanks in part to the awesome Marisa Stotter), I began what has since consumed every spare moment of my free time - writing and producing the short film "Gala".
I joke with my wife because I barely sleep anymore; my mind is constantly running a mile a minute trying to figure out what else I can do while I'm still awake. There's urgency to the process of making a film but it's mainly because there's this invisible ticking clock hanging above my head, reminding me to hurry up and throw myself into my art before reaching that '30' milestone. I've convinced myself that my creative drive isn't infinite, and so everything I do is approached like the con artist on that 'last big score', or a NASCAR driver weaving past the checkered flag. Fourth quarter, two minutes to go. Which is why I've basically eradicated any self-restraint with making "Gala". I don't care. I'm doing this right because it may be my last dance at the rodeo.
Maybe it's because we married so young that somehow 30 seems like a bridge into middle-age, even though so much of what I call my 'youth' still remains. It's nonsense of course (Gabrielle, for one, will be as vibrant and active as she is now well into her 90s), but the 'norms' we've become accustomed to only seem to reinforce the notion that your attitudes in life should shift once you hit a certain age. Add to the fact that I can't go a single day without someone asking when Gabrielle and I are having kids (a harmless question, but discouraging when you're asked over and over and over). My wife is going to be a fantastic mother, and I'm looking forward to father/son or /father/daughter moments when the time is right for both of us. But I feel there's a subtle (if unconscious) jab when people ask me that question, as if they're really asking: "When are you going to stop screwing around with your movies and books and grow up?"
It doesn't help that I've become pretty good at my 'real' job. I’m extremely thankful to have a steady career (when so many struggle finding one) that has both honed my writing skills and also surrounded me with people who have been so encouraging of my creative endeavors. Yet I walk into work, every day, conflicted, because I know that my professional growth there is completely at odds with any dreams I have of writing (something) full-time. For years, I've balanced both, but eventually I will face a hard choice and I'm too cautious to take any risks. That's how I see 30, as the year when I'll be standing at a fork in the road, pausing and evaluating my options even though deep down I know I've already made my decision to take the safer route.
We hear so often that age is an arbitrary number, just a measurement of birth to present, with no actual bearing on your abilities or state of mind. Yet we give it so much credence, just like a 2,000 calorie diet or a New Year’s Resolution. I’m as guilty as everyone else, and so when the clock strikes ’30, I’ll likely spend less time celebrating and more time evaluating how I’ve gotten to where I am and what’s in store for my future. It's hard to break the habit of placing value on meaningless figures, yet until that happens, 29 will likely be my most carefree of all. So months from now, when you all finally have a chance to watch "Gala", know that every bit of passion, energy and resources propelled it to the finish line. Because 2015 is either the year I plan to cross some invisible threshold of success, or the year I plan to go out with a bang.
My brilliant friend and writer Sarah Jacobs recently published a wonderful recap of transitioning to life in her 30s on the Huffington Post. It’s a blog that stuck with me, even though my wise friend is two years ahead in age and lightyears ahead in her craft. I urge you all to read it. She embraced the new decade in open arms, allowing her 20s to remain part of her history but not a time she cares to revisit. She captures the essence of the ‘milestone birthday’ perfectly. But for me, 30 seems more like the starting/finish line to a mental state, whereas 29 – a birthday coming up soon for me – feels more like a year-long pressure cooker set to 'low'.
I’ll likely look back at 2014 (28) as the “year of momentum”. My comedic writing expanded to include writing for several large comedic events, including my first national television gig last week. I also published Miss Mezzanine, a book that critics seem to enjoy but more importantly has really spoken to some people who've read it. It touches me beyond belief that my words have connected with people the way they have. And finally, after an exhausting Kickstarter campaign (and successful - thanks in part to the awesome Marisa Stotter), I began what has since consumed every spare moment of my free time - writing and producing the short film "Gala".
I joke with my wife because I barely sleep anymore; my mind is constantly running a mile a minute trying to figure out what else I can do while I'm still awake. There's urgency to the process of making a film but it's mainly because there's this invisible ticking clock hanging above my head, reminding me to hurry up and throw myself into my art before reaching that '30' milestone. I've convinced myself that my creative drive isn't infinite, and so everything I do is approached like the con artist on that 'last big score', or a NASCAR driver weaving past the checkered flag. Fourth quarter, two minutes to go. Which is why I've basically eradicated any self-restraint with making "Gala". I don't care. I'm doing this right because it may be my last dance at the rodeo.
Maybe it's because we married so young that somehow 30 seems like a bridge into middle-age, even though so much of what I call my 'youth' still remains. It's nonsense of course (Gabrielle, for one, will be as vibrant and active as she is now well into her 90s), but the 'norms' we've become accustomed to only seem to reinforce the notion that your attitudes in life should shift once you hit a certain age. Add to the fact that I can't go a single day without someone asking when Gabrielle and I are having kids (a harmless question, but discouraging when you're asked over and over and over). My wife is going to be a fantastic mother, and I'm looking forward to father/son or /father/daughter moments when the time is right for both of us. But I feel there's a subtle (if unconscious) jab when people ask me that question, as if they're really asking: "When are you going to stop screwing around with your movies and books and grow up?"
It doesn't help that I've become pretty good at my 'real' job. I’m extremely thankful to have a steady career (when so many struggle finding one) that has both honed my writing skills and also surrounded me with people who have been so encouraging of my creative endeavors. Yet I walk into work, every day, conflicted, because I know that my professional growth there is completely at odds with any dreams I have of writing (something) full-time. For years, I've balanced both, but eventually I will face a hard choice and I'm too cautious to take any risks. That's how I see 30, as the year when I'll be standing at a fork in the road, pausing and evaluating my options even though deep down I know I've already made my decision to take the safer route.
We hear so often that age is an arbitrary number, just a measurement of birth to present, with no actual bearing on your abilities or state of mind. Yet we give it so much credence, just like a 2,000 calorie diet or a New Year’s Resolution. I’m as guilty as everyone else, and so when the clock strikes ’30, I’ll likely spend less time celebrating and more time evaluating how I’ve gotten to where I am and what’s in store for my future. It's hard to break the habit of placing value on meaningless figures, yet until that happens, 29 will likely be my most carefree of all. So months from now, when you all finally have a chance to watch "Gala", know that every bit of passion, energy and resources propelled it to the finish line. Because 2015 is either the year I plan to cross some invisible threshold of success, or the year I plan to go out with a bang.
Throwing the 'Gala'
December 4, 2014
In early 2013, about a month after we shot The Gate Agent, I wrote a 12-page short film called ”Gala”, about a writer struggling with the idea of reconnecting with his soon-to-be-famous ex-girlfriend. It was far more ambitious than our last short film, but had the potential to be an enjoyable tale about how writers’ imaginative ways sometimes get the best of them beyond the page. Amadeo (Matthew) and Damiano Fusca (TGA Director) loved the script, and thought this should be the next project we take on after wrapping up post-production. Some of the same folks were on board, new ones were brought in. Everyone was excited, we started planning a schedule, talking about a Kickstarter (since The Gate Agent’s budget was entirely self-financed, something that can’t happen again…). I was still exhausted from producing the last short, so I was more than happy to take a ‘hands-off’ approach to this one. Use the script, but otherwise I’m sitting on the sidelines and have no desire to be involved in the actual production. But then, everyone’s excitement faded away as we had to attend to other projects and Gala sort of…died.
Cue today, 18 months later. With some of our writing/acting momentum building, I thought now might be the time to revisit the script. I had done another rewrite, and felt like the themes were more fleshed out than before. Plus, through the power of networking, I had connected with some great writers and filmmakers and have seen more interest in my work than ever before. If there was ever a time when Gala could be made, it was now. But like me – everyone who had been previously involved had moved on to other things. People were branched out from Los Angeles to New York, and after resting dormant for so long, it’d be near impossible for others to just ‘pick up where they left off’ in their pre-production planning. So, I had to make an executive decision – if Gala is to be made, it’ll have to be me leading this from start to finish, with the vision I had in mind when I originally wrote the script. Hence you now see my name as “Director” of this project too. And though I’m excited, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared shitless.
Generally speaking, I have an easier time standing by my writing because I can say – for better or worse – every word, paragraph, scene was a conscious decision. There’s no such thing as bad lighting, missing a reaction shot, or rushing around to make sure the scene wraps before sundown. I’m proud of The Gate Agent, and feel like the film is pretty good for its budget and scope (and hey, we had successful screenings in both New York and Pittsburgh), but it’s an entirely different dynamic. ‘Producing’ or ‘directing’ a short film vs. conceptually writing one are polar opposite endeavors. In addition to the collective approach (vs. an individual one), there are so many external factors that you’re either completely dependent upon or can stunt your ability to proceed effectively. Still, your audience isn't privy to all of that, nor should they. Filmmaking is a beautiful art form, but it’s surreal, stressful and scary.
That all said, in a few days you’re going to see a video of me asking you to contribute to our Kickstarter campaign. I hope you will consider, because I’m confident in the story, in our cast, and in our crew. One of our actors recently appeared on Boardwalk Empire. Another just worked with Martin Scorsese. Our crew are all very experienced in their respective lines of work. And with Gala, I made the decision to do the ‘all-or-nothing’ approach vs. the ‘flexible spending’ options that some of the other crowdfunding websites offer. Both have their pros and cons, but I have no desire to try and shoot this film if we can only raise 40-50% of the budget we think we need. So if you contribute on day one, you won’t be charged until the end of the campaign and ONLY if we’ve met our target. There’s zero risk that you’ll end up contributing a higher percentage of the budget than you want. Oh, and there are rewards too!
In the end, if Gala is a success and plays at some cool festivals, then maybe you’ll enjoy saying you were a part of making it happen. And if the film totally sucks, then it meant that I failed in bringing you the same vision that I promised my cast and crew. But that’s how directing works; either way, I just want to make a movie. And I think Gala is one that you'll all enjoy.
In early 2013, about a month after we shot The Gate Agent, I wrote a 12-page short film called ”Gala”, about a writer struggling with the idea of reconnecting with his soon-to-be-famous ex-girlfriend. It was far more ambitious than our last short film, but had the potential to be an enjoyable tale about how writers’ imaginative ways sometimes get the best of them beyond the page. Amadeo (Matthew) and Damiano Fusca (TGA Director) loved the script, and thought this should be the next project we take on after wrapping up post-production. Some of the same folks were on board, new ones were brought in. Everyone was excited, we started planning a schedule, talking about a Kickstarter (since The Gate Agent’s budget was entirely self-financed, something that can’t happen again…). I was still exhausted from producing the last short, so I was more than happy to take a ‘hands-off’ approach to this one. Use the script, but otherwise I’m sitting on the sidelines and have no desire to be involved in the actual production. But then, everyone’s excitement faded away as we had to attend to other projects and Gala sort of…died.
Cue today, 18 months later. With some of our writing/acting momentum building, I thought now might be the time to revisit the script. I had done another rewrite, and felt like the themes were more fleshed out than before. Plus, through the power of networking, I had connected with some great writers and filmmakers and have seen more interest in my work than ever before. If there was ever a time when Gala could be made, it was now. But like me – everyone who had been previously involved had moved on to other things. People were branched out from Los Angeles to New York, and after resting dormant for so long, it’d be near impossible for others to just ‘pick up where they left off’ in their pre-production planning. So, I had to make an executive decision – if Gala is to be made, it’ll have to be me leading this from start to finish, with the vision I had in mind when I originally wrote the script. Hence you now see my name as “Director” of this project too. And though I’m excited, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared shitless.
Generally speaking, I have an easier time standing by my writing because I can say – for better or worse – every word, paragraph, scene was a conscious decision. There’s no such thing as bad lighting, missing a reaction shot, or rushing around to make sure the scene wraps before sundown. I’m proud of The Gate Agent, and feel like the film is pretty good for its budget and scope (and hey, we had successful screenings in both New York and Pittsburgh), but it’s an entirely different dynamic. ‘Producing’ or ‘directing’ a short film vs. conceptually writing one are polar opposite endeavors. In addition to the collective approach (vs. an individual one), there are so many external factors that you’re either completely dependent upon or can stunt your ability to proceed effectively. Still, your audience isn't privy to all of that, nor should they. Filmmaking is a beautiful art form, but it’s surreal, stressful and scary.
That all said, in a few days you’re going to see a video of me asking you to contribute to our Kickstarter campaign. I hope you will consider, because I’m confident in the story, in our cast, and in our crew. One of our actors recently appeared on Boardwalk Empire. Another just worked with Martin Scorsese. Our crew are all very experienced in their respective lines of work. And with Gala, I made the decision to do the ‘all-or-nothing’ approach vs. the ‘flexible spending’ options that some of the other crowdfunding websites offer. Both have their pros and cons, but I have no desire to try and shoot this film if we can only raise 40-50% of the budget we think we need. So if you contribute on day one, you won’t be charged until the end of the campaign and ONLY if we’ve met our target. There’s zero risk that you’ll end up contributing a higher percentage of the budget than you want. Oh, and there are rewards too!
In the end, if Gala is a success and plays at some cool festivals, then maybe you’ll enjoy saying you were a part of making it happen. And if the film totally sucks, then it meant that I failed in bringing you the same vision that I promised my cast and crew. But that’s how directing works; either way, I just want to make a movie. And I think Gala is one that you'll all enjoy.
Robert De Niro, $2 Cocoa Puffs, and How I Almost Ruined David Blaine's Magic Trick
Harvey Keitel and Robert De Niro. Photo Credit: Dave Kogut. Amadeo Fusca right behind De Niro.
October 13, 2014
It’s 10:15am, Monday morning. I’m sitting on a comfortable chair in a posh Manhattan apartment, the sun peeking through the window, the never-ending sound of New York City traffic piercing my ears. Across from me sits Harvey Keitel; yes, that Harvey Keitel. Pulp Fiction, Reservoir Dogs, Mean Streets, Taxi Driver, etc. We’ve just finished brainstorming some new ideas for his speech, when we start running through Scorsese’s best movies. He says “Goodfellas” could be his best film, a true masterpiece; I’m hesitant in revealing that I’m in the minority and prefer “Casino”. Yet at that brief moment, I had to ask myself, “How did I get here?”
OK, hold on. Let me back up for a minute.
I won’t bother rehashing all of my prior comedic contributions; click on the “comedy” link if you’re really that interested. All I’ll say is when I heard the Friars Club was honoring Robert De Niro with their highest honor: the Entertainment Icon Award (only four previous winners: Cary Grant, Frank Sinatra among them), I made it a mission to be included. “I’ll write drink orders if I have to, I don’t care,” I joked with the producers. We’re talking about the greatest living actor of all time, one whose performances are cherished by anyone and everyone in show business. I needed to be a part of this. And after a few jumped hoops (which included an ‘interview’ with the head writer, as well as a good recommendation from someone involved in the show), I was hired for the event as a “Writer/Writer’s Assistant”. I’d be starting on Friday, four days before the main 1,000+ attendee gala, working with one of the biggest names in comedy writing (a man who also wrote one of my favorite 90s comedies, but I digress…)
So how did it go?
First let me say that the “/” in my title was used rather loosely, as my responsibilities at any point in time could straddle either role. One minute, I could be making suggested edits to Robert De Niro’s acceptance speech; the next minute, I’m running around Manhattan playing courier, picking up and dropping off highly-important movie clips to the editing room. One minute, I’m in the comfort of the head writer’s office, listening to ambient music while I chalk up some talking points for Brian Williams, the next I’m ‘in the trenches’ with production, feeding messages between our (brilliant) script supervisor and the teleprompter operator. I think we all watch shows like the Oscars, Tonys, Emmys, etc. and take for granted that the show runs on autopilot, which couldn’t be further from the truth. The people involved in making sure these productions run smoothly have to balance about a thousand balls in the air while dodging bullets from a million different directions. Imagine your wedding. Tons to do, tons to plan, right? Ok, now imagine marrying twenty different grooms, each who have their own requirements, guidelines, quirks and tendencies. I didn’t stop working until after De Niro’s speech wrapped, and I had about 2% of the responsibilities that some of these folks had.
Some highs and lows:
· Low: I first arrive in New York City, walk in the head writer’s office, plop down on his couch, laptop in hand, ready to write. Ready to contribute. “It’s great you’re here, I think I have your first assignment.” Alright, what’s first up? Who am I crafting words for? Who needs some editing? Not so fast. “David Blaine is performing at the gala and will be doing a magic trick involving a mosaic of Robert De Niro images. We need to figure out how to put this together. Can you figure out who could create one, where we could have it printed, etc.? Oh, and can you put together all of the images?” Ahhh, ok. Scrapping together some images from De Niro’s endless filmography, sure, easy. But coordinating with printers and designers? Negotiating quotes for people in a city that I’m still a geographic amateur? I felt sick to my stomach, my first assignment likely to fail, as it’s hours in and I’m making zero traction with the printers/designers I’m calling. I’m stalling, collecting images but knowing that it’ll be do-or-die time with this printer (or lack of). I find a fishy website that’ll form a mosaic for you if you feed it images. Offshore, of course, $6 through PayPal. Fine, but how do I PHYSICALLY make this thing a reality? The phone rings. It’s David Blaine’s personal assistant. The head writer flips the phone to me, the lump in my throat growing to the size of a tangerine. “How is it coming along so far? Do you think you can have this mosaic for David?” “Ummm,” I respond, trying to act cool, “Can you give me some more guidance on the exact printing specifications you need? I’m still hunting down someone who can print.” She pauses. “Well we have our own print vendor, we would just need the file of the mosaic.” WHAT, THAT’S IT!? HALLE-FREAKIN-LUJAH! I let her know that I just need a few minutes to run the file through this jenky website, and it’ll be in her email mailbox soon. Ulcer subsided. And for the record, the magic trick turned out ok.
· High: Before every speaker, they showed a brief clip of the movie that said presenter worked on with Robert De Niro. Some of his best clips were shown: Casino (prior to Scorsese), The Deer Hunter (Walken), Raging Bull (Ramirez), Silver Linings Playbook (O. Russell), etc. Most of the clips had been selected and edited before I even arrived, but I did get to browse through great films like Taxi Driver and Awakenings to help select which 1-2 minute clip would be shown as most representative of that film, or more specifically, that De Niro performance. Awakenings was especially difficult, since every potential clip involved Robin Williams, which nearly made me tear up since it’s one of his best performances. Still, I had narrowed it down to two and the head writer signed off on my favorite clip. The crowd loved it.
· High: And of course there was Harvey Keitel, who had the final speech of the night before presenting De Niro with the award. Originally, I was supposed to just drop off his cue cards, a brief “Hello Mr. Keitel” before being on my merry way. But he invites me in, asks if I want coffee, and we actually spend nearly two hours together, writing, editing, practicing his speech. He was perhaps the most polite person I’ve ever met, the complete antithesis of what you see in some of his characters on screen. I spoke with him at the event too, and he kept telling me how much fun he had working with us. My favorite part though? A ‘thank you’ email arrives in my inbox, from Harvey, telling me how much he appreciated our work. The man was a saint.
Ultimately, the head writer wrote the overwhelming majority of the night’s speeches, but I definitely made my mark. I wrote several jokes for SNL’s Kenan Thompson hours before the event, who “Variety” dubbed as the funniest of the night. I certainly contributed to Harvey Keitel’s, even if in the end most of my ideas were vetoed (including a Rocky and Bullwinkle joke, which I am 100% confident would have killed). I wrote what perhaps was my favorite speech for Penny Marshall (Director of Awakenings) – a combination of honoring Robert De Niro while also paying tribute to Robin Williams. I sat alone for two hours, trying to get the tone just right, writing about a topic that on its surface was very tricky and ultrasensitive. The speech wasn’t used, as Penny chose to ad lib with just a few bullet points on her cue cards. Though I’d like to think it was well received, since the head writer told me he planned on sending to her to use, but did a 180 once it seemed that she was going in a different direction. Bottom line though: I felt included. I was clearly the low man on the totem pole and could have been reduced to fetching coffee for the higher-ups. But every time I received an email “Here’s my speech for xxx, any comments?” or “Can you throw some lines together for xxx?”, I realized that my talents were being utilized, even if just a little.
Oh and as far as the Cocoa Puffs? Well, to put it simply: New York City is expensive. Everything costs double. But my best friend Amadeo happened to find this CVS tucked away in Midtown that had every cereal imaginable on sale for $1.99. Don’t know how that happened, but suffice to say, I ate a bowl of Cocoa Puffs for breakfast every morning my entire trip. “There’s great stuff hidden everywhere,” Amadeo had said, “you just need to know where to look.”
Funny – that’s exactly how I feel about my writing.
It’s 10:15am, Monday morning. I’m sitting on a comfortable chair in a posh Manhattan apartment, the sun peeking through the window, the never-ending sound of New York City traffic piercing my ears. Across from me sits Harvey Keitel; yes, that Harvey Keitel. Pulp Fiction, Reservoir Dogs, Mean Streets, Taxi Driver, etc. We’ve just finished brainstorming some new ideas for his speech, when we start running through Scorsese’s best movies. He says “Goodfellas” could be his best film, a true masterpiece; I’m hesitant in revealing that I’m in the minority and prefer “Casino”. Yet at that brief moment, I had to ask myself, “How did I get here?”
OK, hold on. Let me back up for a minute.
I won’t bother rehashing all of my prior comedic contributions; click on the “comedy” link if you’re really that interested. All I’ll say is when I heard the Friars Club was honoring Robert De Niro with their highest honor: the Entertainment Icon Award (only four previous winners: Cary Grant, Frank Sinatra among them), I made it a mission to be included. “I’ll write drink orders if I have to, I don’t care,” I joked with the producers. We’re talking about the greatest living actor of all time, one whose performances are cherished by anyone and everyone in show business. I needed to be a part of this. And after a few jumped hoops (which included an ‘interview’ with the head writer, as well as a good recommendation from someone involved in the show), I was hired for the event as a “Writer/Writer’s Assistant”. I’d be starting on Friday, four days before the main 1,000+ attendee gala, working with one of the biggest names in comedy writing (a man who also wrote one of my favorite 90s comedies, but I digress…)
So how did it go?
First let me say that the “/” in my title was used rather loosely, as my responsibilities at any point in time could straddle either role. One minute, I could be making suggested edits to Robert De Niro’s acceptance speech; the next minute, I’m running around Manhattan playing courier, picking up and dropping off highly-important movie clips to the editing room. One minute, I’m in the comfort of the head writer’s office, listening to ambient music while I chalk up some talking points for Brian Williams, the next I’m ‘in the trenches’ with production, feeding messages between our (brilliant) script supervisor and the teleprompter operator. I think we all watch shows like the Oscars, Tonys, Emmys, etc. and take for granted that the show runs on autopilot, which couldn’t be further from the truth. The people involved in making sure these productions run smoothly have to balance about a thousand balls in the air while dodging bullets from a million different directions. Imagine your wedding. Tons to do, tons to plan, right? Ok, now imagine marrying twenty different grooms, each who have their own requirements, guidelines, quirks and tendencies. I didn’t stop working until after De Niro’s speech wrapped, and I had about 2% of the responsibilities that some of these folks had.
Some highs and lows:
· Low: I first arrive in New York City, walk in the head writer’s office, plop down on his couch, laptop in hand, ready to write. Ready to contribute. “It’s great you’re here, I think I have your first assignment.” Alright, what’s first up? Who am I crafting words for? Who needs some editing? Not so fast. “David Blaine is performing at the gala and will be doing a magic trick involving a mosaic of Robert De Niro images. We need to figure out how to put this together. Can you figure out who could create one, where we could have it printed, etc.? Oh, and can you put together all of the images?” Ahhh, ok. Scrapping together some images from De Niro’s endless filmography, sure, easy. But coordinating with printers and designers? Negotiating quotes for people in a city that I’m still a geographic amateur? I felt sick to my stomach, my first assignment likely to fail, as it’s hours in and I’m making zero traction with the printers/designers I’m calling. I’m stalling, collecting images but knowing that it’ll be do-or-die time with this printer (or lack of). I find a fishy website that’ll form a mosaic for you if you feed it images. Offshore, of course, $6 through PayPal. Fine, but how do I PHYSICALLY make this thing a reality? The phone rings. It’s David Blaine’s personal assistant. The head writer flips the phone to me, the lump in my throat growing to the size of a tangerine. “How is it coming along so far? Do you think you can have this mosaic for David?” “Ummm,” I respond, trying to act cool, “Can you give me some more guidance on the exact printing specifications you need? I’m still hunting down someone who can print.” She pauses. “Well we have our own print vendor, we would just need the file of the mosaic.” WHAT, THAT’S IT!? HALLE-FREAKIN-LUJAH! I let her know that I just need a few minutes to run the file through this jenky website, and it’ll be in her email mailbox soon. Ulcer subsided. And for the record, the magic trick turned out ok.
· High: Before every speaker, they showed a brief clip of the movie that said presenter worked on with Robert De Niro. Some of his best clips were shown: Casino (prior to Scorsese), The Deer Hunter (Walken), Raging Bull (Ramirez), Silver Linings Playbook (O. Russell), etc. Most of the clips had been selected and edited before I even arrived, but I did get to browse through great films like Taxi Driver and Awakenings to help select which 1-2 minute clip would be shown as most representative of that film, or more specifically, that De Niro performance. Awakenings was especially difficult, since every potential clip involved Robin Williams, which nearly made me tear up since it’s one of his best performances. Still, I had narrowed it down to two and the head writer signed off on my favorite clip. The crowd loved it.
· High: And of course there was Harvey Keitel, who had the final speech of the night before presenting De Niro with the award. Originally, I was supposed to just drop off his cue cards, a brief “Hello Mr. Keitel” before being on my merry way. But he invites me in, asks if I want coffee, and we actually spend nearly two hours together, writing, editing, practicing his speech. He was perhaps the most polite person I’ve ever met, the complete antithesis of what you see in some of his characters on screen. I spoke with him at the event too, and he kept telling me how much fun he had working with us. My favorite part though? A ‘thank you’ email arrives in my inbox, from Harvey, telling me how much he appreciated our work. The man was a saint.
Ultimately, the head writer wrote the overwhelming majority of the night’s speeches, but I definitely made my mark. I wrote several jokes for SNL’s Kenan Thompson hours before the event, who “Variety” dubbed as the funniest of the night. I certainly contributed to Harvey Keitel’s, even if in the end most of my ideas were vetoed (including a Rocky and Bullwinkle joke, which I am 100% confident would have killed). I wrote what perhaps was my favorite speech for Penny Marshall (Director of Awakenings) – a combination of honoring Robert De Niro while also paying tribute to Robin Williams. I sat alone for two hours, trying to get the tone just right, writing about a topic that on its surface was very tricky and ultrasensitive. The speech wasn’t used, as Penny chose to ad lib with just a few bullet points on her cue cards. Though I’d like to think it was well received, since the head writer told me he planned on sending to her to use, but did a 180 once it seemed that she was going in a different direction. Bottom line though: I felt included. I was clearly the low man on the totem pole and could have been reduced to fetching coffee for the higher-ups. But every time I received an email “Here’s my speech for xxx, any comments?” or “Can you throw some lines together for xxx?”, I realized that my talents were being utilized, even if just a little.
Oh and as far as the Cocoa Puffs? Well, to put it simply: New York City is expensive. Everything costs double. But my best friend Amadeo happened to find this CVS tucked away in Midtown that had every cereal imaginable on sale for $1.99. Don’t know how that happened, but suffice to say, I ate a bowl of Cocoa Puffs for breakfast every morning my entire trip. “There’s great stuff hidden everywhere,” Amadeo had said, “you just need to know where to look.”
Funny – that’s exactly how I feel about my writing.
Owning Your Typos
September 19, 2014
On Tuesday, I addressed a crowd of roughly 40 friends, family and strangers at the Monroeville Public Library to discuss my novel Miss Mezzanine, some happenings in the world of comedy, and a few other topics. Speaking in a public setting like this isn't something I'm used to, especially in a discussion centered around ME and characters I created. Still, the audience had wonderful questions and there were back-and-forth organic discussions which helped put me at ease. I can't possibly express enough gratitude and appreciation for the folks who came and saw me, who took the time out of their evening to listen to me ramble for an hour. I had a blast, and it's quite possible I may be doing this again soon (more to come on that, later). The next day, I received an email from a former teacher who attended the Q&A, and he posed a very interesting question: "Mike, I read the book and really enjoyed it! I did find some errors though. I'm surprised your editor didn't catch them."
At first I cringed when I read that, because he's not the first person to point out that there are indeed typos in the final copy of Miss Mezzanine. I hate that they exist, and knowing more than one showed up - considering the painstaking precautions I took to prevent that from happening - makes me sick to my stomach. Like I'm a fraud for standing in front of a room of people talking about writing when these amateurish things exist in the book in question. I feel like I walked right into the hands of the naysayers who decry self-publishing, who can point to a page on my book and say "See, there!". It's ammo, and I'm the one that loaded the gun.
But then I felt the need to address his question (and my readers) with blunt honesty, and a few reasons why this might indeed happen to your final work, regardless of how good of a writer you are (or think you are):
Sounds like I'm rationalizing, huh? Yeah, I guess I am. Miss Mezzanine is 41,000 words, so an error every 500 or so (most of which are contained within dialogue) is something I can live with. My only hope is that my readers can too, and judge the writing in its totality, and not for the misspelling of "overheard" with "overhead". Still, self-published writers need to accept their mistakes, discover what caused them, and use them to try and train the mind to avoid missing them in the final stages (in addition to hiring an experienced proofreader, which is a MUST). And the end game should not be to never make a typo again. It should be to improve your craft to the point that someone reading is more concerned about what happens after it.
On Tuesday, I addressed a crowd of roughly 40 friends, family and strangers at the Monroeville Public Library to discuss my novel Miss Mezzanine, some happenings in the world of comedy, and a few other topics. Speaking in a public setting like this isn't something I'm used to, especially in a discussion centered around ME and characters I created. Still, the audience had wonderful questions and there were back-and-forth organic discussions which helped put me at ease. I can't possibly express enough gratitude and appreciation for the folks who came and saw me, who took the time out of their evening to listen to me ramble for an hour. I had a blast, and it's quite possible I may be doing this again soon (more to come on that, later). The next day, I received an email from a former teacher who attended the Q&A, and he posed a very interesting question: "Mike, I read the book and really enjoyed it! I did find some errors though. I'm surprised your editor didn't catch them."
At first I cringed when I read that, because he's not the first person to point out that there are indeed typos in the final copy of Miss Mezzanine. I hate that they exist, and knowing more than one showed up - considering the painstaking precautions I took to prevent that from happening - makes me sick to my stomach. Like I'm a fraud for standing in front of a room of people talking about writing when these amateurish things exist in the book in question. I feel like I walked right into the hands of the naysayers who decry self-publishing, who can point to a page on my book and say "See, there!". It's ammo, and I'm the one that loaded the gun.
But then I felt the need to address his question (and my readers) with blunt honesty, and a few reasons why this might indeed happen to your final work, regardless of how good of a writer you are (or think you are):
- Producing typos does not make you a bad speller. I run with that elite crowd that hangs its head in shame every time a person misuses "there" for "their" and "you're" for "your". 99.9% of people reading blog this probably do, too. Most typos come from either your fingers working faster than your mind, or your brain automatically associating certain words with certain phrases, thus not realizing if one is missing or is misplaced. And you can read the same thing 99 times and not find it until the 100th.
- It's not the editor's fault. Editors will fix a TON of a writer's mistakes. In my case, there were hundreds if not thousands of errors fixed along the way throughout the multiple drafts of Miss Mezzanine. But in the list of an editor's priorities, that's probably 5th or 6th on the list. Language, flow, consistency, tone, logic, etc. are the primary things a book editor is looking for. Catching mistakes is usually a bi-product of that process, not the primary focus.
- It's not your proofreader's fault, either. My editor is brilliant, but just like me, she's too close to the work to be the final gatekeeper between my words and the world. That's why I hired a proofreader. So it's his fault! No, it's not. Not only did he actually catch a few of these errors (which I missed while incorporating into the final file), but he was also - as a favor - reading the book in its final layout, which is FAR from ideal to what a proofreader should be doing. But I was so desperate for someone to see everything in its print layout that I took the risk of missing a couple words as opposed to missing page margins and pagination. And like I said, he still caught most of them!
- Professionals aren't invincible. I remember reading Stephen King's Under the Dome four years ago and coming across a glaring typo re: a dog's name in the book. Apparently I wasn't the only one. I think there are a few in The Stand. Does that matter? To some, I guess so, but not to me. Maybe it's because my day-to-day profession involves writing and editing, but I have a good eye for distinguishing sloppiness vs. making mistakes. These is a stark difference, and the line is not thin.
Sounds like I'm rationalizing, huh? Yeah, I guess I am. Miss Mezzanine is 41,000 words, so an error every 500 or so (most of which are contained within dialogue) is something I can live with. My only hope is that my readers can too, and judge the writing in its totality, and not for the misspelling of "overheard" with "overhead". Still, self-published writers need to accept their mistakes, discover what caused them, and use them to try and train the mind to avoid missing them in the final stages (in addition to hiring an experienced proofreader, which is a MUST). And the end game should not be to never make a typo again. It should be to improve your craft to the point that someone reading is more concerned about what happens after it.
MiTunes, and a Music Challenge
July 6, 2014
I recently had a conversation with a friend about art. Among other things, we were discussing our writings, and the person asked me point blank: “Could you live without writing?” The stereotypical, knee-jerk response would be “No”, which would be partially true. I constantly want to create things on the page, whether it be a blog post, a novel, a screenplay, or insensitive jokes for Gov. Chris Christie to dish out (man, if only he would have used a few key ones that night…). But I imagine if the day came when I’d have to retire my ‘pen’, I could fill the void with more books, movies, or non-basic-cable TV shows. Ironically though, it’s another type of art that I couldn’t live without, one that holds more weight over my life than writing: music.
It’s likely that if you were to randomly encounter me in public, I’d be listing to music. Thirty minutes after I roll out of my bed, I’m riding a bus to work, listening to music . Within minutes of arriving at work, I’m plugged back in and have the music on shuffle. I only take my headphones off if I need to step away from my desk. It aides my concentration in my 9-5 job, and I extend the same practices while at home in private. I have a very difficult time reading or writing without my music strapped to my side. I wash the dishes while plugged in. Clean the house. Hell, the entire reason why I finally took a plunge into the 2000s and purchased an iPhone a couple months ago was because my Ipod kept dying, and I couldn't live without it. I cling to my tunes, because they’ve grown to become such a large part of who I am. And if a good song/artist/album inspires me, I ride that wave as long as I need to. Are you a fan of Rod Stewart’s “Maggie May”? Did you know that the song is about a young Rod Stewart who meets an impressionable woman at a concert, leaving an imprint on his heart? Well, you can bet your ass I listened to that song on repeat while I wrote Chapter 1 of “Miss Mezzanine” (spoiler alert: it’s similar).
I admire my writer friends. But I’m jealous of my musician friends. Mostly everyone can write, so a good writer's job is to take that basic craft that we all learned in grade school and to use it effectively to entertain, teach, or provoke. Musicians though possess this unique talent that only few are exposed to, using a set of skills that can't be discovered unless there's something in their brain that allows them to surface. And I'm not necessarily talking about just those that are great at playing an instrument. You can practice for years and years and years and learn how to play Mozart on the piano at great speed, but that's still a different beast from those that create music. I wish I had that talent, that I could plop myself down in front of a piano or a guitar and crank out an hour's worth of music that could fill up a concert full of people. I wish I could stare at the white and black keys on a piano and create a combination of notes that moves people. Great films inspire me. Great books engulf me. But only great songs have the opportunity to show up in my life everyday, creeping their way into my thought process or even my writing. And that's where the jealousy stems.
Maybe my views on music differ from most; I'm always down with listening to the most popular songs out there, the ones you hear if you're heading to the bar or club on a Saturday night. Some of them are fun, and during their one- to two-month run on the radio, I can find myself reciting the lyrics if it pops up on an afternoon drive. But those songs don't define me, or provide an insight to what really pushes me along when I'm trying to otherwise live my life. I'd like to think everyone feels that way on some level. Which brings me to my "Music Challenge". What is it? Well, here are the basic rules:
1. Find someone else who wants to play with you (Not as easy as it seems)
2. Every day for twenty days, you take turns sending that person a file/link to one of the ten songs you feel are most inspirational to you
3. In addition to the song, also include a 1-2 sentence reason of why that song resonates so strongly with you. Not an essay, just a brief reason
4. Try to swap out artists or genres if you can. Offer a variety to spice things up for the other person
5. At the end of the game, ask yourself: did you learn a little bit about the other person? Do you think they learned a bit about you?
So I invite all those interested in sharing their favorites to join me in the challenge. What songs speak to you as a human being? What are the songs that you could listen to on repeat from here until eternity?
Who wants to play?
I recently had a conversation with a friend about art. Among other things, we were discussing our writings, and the person asked me point blank: “Could you live without writing?” The stereotypical, knee-jerk response would be “No”, which would be partially true. I constantly want to create things on the page, whether it be a blog post, a novel, a screenplay, or insensitive jokes for Gov. Chris Christie to dish out (man, if only he would have used a few key ones that night…). But I imagine if the day came when I’d have to retire my ‘pen’, I could fill the void with more books, movies, or non-basic-cable TV shows. Ironically though, it’s another type of art that I couldn’t live without, one that holds more weight over my life than writing: music.
It’s likely that if you were to randomly encounter me in public, I’d be listing to music. Thirty minutes after I roll out of my bed, I’m riding a bus to work, listening to music . Within minutes of arriving at work, I’m plugged back in and have the music on shuffle. I only take my headphones off if I need to step away from my desk. It aides my concentration in my 9-5 job, and I extend the same practices while at home in private. I have a very difficult time reading or writing without my music strapped to my side. I wash the dishes while plugged in. Clean the house. Hell, the entire reason why I finally took a plunge into the 2000s and purchased an iPhone a couple months ago was because my Ipod kept dying, and I couldn't live without it. I cling to my tunes, because they’ve grown to become such a large part of who I am. And if a good song/artist/album inspires me, I ride that wave as long as I need to. Are you a fan of Rod Stewart’s “Maggie May”? Did you know that the song is about a young Rod Stewart who meets an impressionable woman at a concert, leaving an imprint on his heart? Well, you can bet your ass I listened to that song on repeat while I wrote Chapter 1 of “Miss Mezzanine” (spoiler alert: it’s similar).
I admire my writer friends. But I’m jealous of my musician friends. Mostly everyone can write, so a good writer's job is to take that basic craft that we all learned in grade school and to use it effectively to entertain, teach, or provoke. Musicians though possess this unique talent that only few are exposed to, using a set of skills that can't be discovered unless there's something in their brain that allows them to surface. And I'm not necessarily talking about just those that are great at playing an instrument. You can practice for years and years and years and learn how to play Mozart on the piano at great speed, but that's still a different beast from those that create music. I wish I had that talent, that I could plop myself down in front of a piano or a guitar and crank out an hour's worth of music that could fill up a concert full of people. I wish I could stare at the white and black keys on a piano and create a combination of notes that moves people. Great films inspire me. Great books engulf me. But only great songs have the opportunity to show up in my life everyday, creeping their way into my thought process or even my writing. And that's where the jealousy stems.
Maybe my views on music differ from most; I'm always down with listening to the most popular songs out there, the ones you hear if you're heading to the bar or club on a Saturday night. Some of them are fun, and during their one- to two-month run on the radio, I can find myself reciting the lyrics if it pops up on an afternoon drive. But those songs don't define me, or provide an insight to what really pushes me along when I'm trying to otherwise live my life. I'd like to think everyone feels that way on some level. Which brings me to my "Music Challenge". What is it? Well, here are the basic rules:
1. Find someone else who wants to play with you (Not as easy as it seems)
2. Every day for twenty days, you take turns sending that person a file/link to one of the ten songs you feel are most inspirational to you
3. In addition to the song, also include a 1-2 sentence reason of why that song resonates so strongly with you. Not an essay, just a brief reason
4. Try to swap out artists or genres if you can. Offer a variety to spice things up for the other person
5. At the end of the game, ask yourself: did you learn a little bit about the other person? Do you think they learned a bit about you?
So I invite all those interested in sharing their favorites to join me in the challenge. What songs speak to you as a human being? What are the songs that you could listen to on repeat from here until eternity?
Who wants to play?
The Fault in Our Readers
May 29, 2014
Despite the more serious themes and topics presented in John Green’s young adult novel The Fault in Our Stars (illness, love, death, independence, etc.), days later one in particular remained in my mind. Without giving away any spoilers, part of the book centers around the protagonist’s (Hazel) desire to solve several unanswered questions surrounding her favorite book. To her, the book ends without tying up every loose end, and her love for the story its characters torments her enough to feel as if learning the truth will provide her the only true closure. Hazel is by no means unique; we’ve all seen a movie, watched a TV show, read a book, where we felt entwined with its main characters enough that we didn’t want to see it end, or at least end in a way that left their fate(s) to the observer’s imagination. Geez, I can still remember the near coup d'état that occurred after the interpretative ending of The Sopranos. Books even more so, since it’s a medium where you spend so much time inside a person’s head, learning nearly every new piece of information at the same time as they do, and in some cases even reacting concurrently.
But what does it even mean when we say we want to “know what happens to them”? Aside from the most basic concepts, can an author / writer / filmmaker ever answer that question? Yes, David Chase can say that Tony Soprano did not get shot in that diner, but then who’s to say he didn’t get shot the next morning? Or a week later? Ten years? We can say that two characters in that romance novel did end up getting married. But then would you want to know more? Did they have kids? Divorce? Who dies first? Does the other move back with the children or shuffle off to a retirement home? You see my point, right? Forcing creators of their work to extend the literary shelf life of its characters is essentially asking them to humanize fictional people. In that case, the only real response would be: “Life went on, or it didn’t.” The power of the literary.
So why did this particular topic strike a chord with me while reading Faults? Well, at least two thirds of the people that have read Miss Mezzanine have asked me the same question: “When’s the sequel?”, or “What happens to Jass and Annabelle?”. There have been some variations of this question of course, some extremely specific questions about secondary characters I never gave much thought to after the book was finished. My initial reaction is always flattery, since it means that on some level these readers have enough interest in my work to want to learn something more, even if it’s me telling them in one sentence “They get married”, or “She moves to London”, or even “He dies”. None of these are true of course; the fact is, I can’t answer that question conceptually, nor can any writer in my position. One time I actually answered “I don’t know what happens to them, why don’t you write a sequel and tell me?” I wasn’t trying to be facetious, just trying to prove the point that in theory we all have the ability to finish writing books we didn’t want to end, or shooting more of a movie that ended too quickly. But it sort of created this paradox within our thought process: do we really want to know what happens to Jass and Annabelle, or do we want what Mike Smith thinks will happen to Jass and Annabelle? If it’s the latter, that bestows an enormous amount of power and pressure on a writer. What if I answer incorrectly? What if I change my mind? Or even worse, what if I just don’t know?
I really want to write a sequel to Miss Mezzanine one day, sooner rather than later. Maybe it’s because I’m just as curious as they all are about where Jass’s life takes him after all of the decisions he made in the book, or whether Annabelle’s outgoingness will fade away as she grows older. Maybe it’s because I’ve experienced that next stage in my life and want to build a fictional plot around some of the concerns and worries that hit you after you’ve finished college. Or maybe it’s just because I want to give my power back to Jass and Annabelle, so that they can answer the question ‘what happens to us?’ themselves.
Despite the more serious themes and topics presented in John Green’s young adult novel The Fault in Our Stars (illness, love, death, independence, etc.), days later one in particular remained in my mind. Without giving away any spoilers, part of the book centers around the protagonist’s (Hazel) desire to solve several unanswered questions surrounding her favorite book. To her, the book ends without tying up every loose end, and her love for the story its characters torments her enough to feel as if learning the truth will provide her the only true closure. Hazel is by no means unique; we’ve all seen a movie, watched a TV show, read a book, where we felt entwined with its main characters enough that we didn’t want to see it end, or at least end in a way that left their fate(s) to the observer’s imagination. Geez, I can still remember the near coup d'état that occurred after the interpretative ending of The Sopranos. Books even more so, since it’s a medium where you spend so much time inside a person’s head, learning nearly every new piece of information at the same time as they do, and in some cases even reacting concurrently.
But what does it even mean when we say we want to “know what happens to them”? Aside from the most basic concepts, can an author / writer / filmmaker ever answer that question? Yes, David Chase can say that Tony Soprano did not get shot in that diner, but then who’s to say he didn’t get shot the next morning? Or a week later? Ten years? We can say that two characters in that romance novel did end up getting married. But then would you want to know more? Did they have kids? Divorce? Who dies first? Does the other move back with the children or shuffle off to a retirement home? You see my point, right? Forcing creators of their work to extend the literary shelf life of its characters is essentially asking them to humanize fictional people. In that case, the only real response would be: “Life went on, or it didn’t.” The power of the literary.
So why did this particular topic strike a chord with me while reading Faults? Well, at least two thirds of the people that have read Miss Mezzanine have asked me the same question: “When’s the sequel?”, or “What happens to Jass and Annabelle?”. There have been some variations of this question of course, some extremely specific questions about secondary characters I never gave much thought to after the book was finished. My initial reaction is always flattery, since it means that on some level these readers have enough interest in my work to want to learn something more, even if it’s me telling them in one sentence “They get married”, or “She moves to London”, or even “He dies”. None of these are true of course; the fact is, I can’t answer that question conceptually, nor can any writer in my position. One time I actually answered “I don’t know what happens to them, why don’t you write a sequel and tell me?” I wasn’t trying to be facetious, just trying to prove the point that in theory we all have the ability to finish writing books we didn’t want to end, or shooting more of a movie that ended too quickly. But it sort of created this paradox within our thought process: do we really want to know what happens to Jass and Annabelle, or do we want what Mike Smith thinks will happen to Jass and Annabelle? If it’s the latter, that bestows an enormous amount of power and pressure on a writer. What if I answer incorrectly? What if I change my mind? Or even worse, what if I just don’t know?
I really want to write a sequel to Miss Mezzanine one day, sooner rather than later. Maybe it’s because I’m just as curious as they all are about where Jass’s life takes him after all of the decisions he made in the book, or whether Annabelle’s outgoingness will fade away as she grows older. Maybe it’s because I’ve experienced that next stage in my life and want to build a fictional plot around some of the concerns and worries that hit you after you’ve finished college. Or maybe it’s just because I want to give my power back to Jass and Annabelle, so that they can answer the question ‘what happens to us?’ themselves.
How To Write a Novel in Ten Months (Results May Vary)
February 9, 2014
I think it was shortly after the Friars Club Roast of Jack Black when I made the decision to write another novel. Amadeo and I interviewed on WDVE about the Roast, there were great stories in the Pittsburgh Tribune Review and Pittsburgh Post Gazette about his victory. I needed to keep writing - but knowing the next Roast wouldn't be for another year, directing that passion to another avenue wasn't entirely easy. So I chose to embark on another project - write my next novel. But this time, I'd do it the right way. I wrote a blog post (see below) in May about my 'plan' for this novel, but after an exhausting ten months, I thought I'd share the entire process from start to finish of "Miss Mezzanine". And who knows - maybe this will help those of you writers waiting for a little push into the scary world of novel writing take the next step:
When I wrote Miss Mezzanine, I wasn't shooting to write the next Faulkner or Hemingway novel. I only hoped for an engaging experience with some interesting characters that highlights the stress that many near-college graduates feel when they must make decisions on the next component of their lives. The amount of support that I've received so far has been amazing - I just hope that the book lives up to the hype. But the bottom line is that in 2014, tools exist for aspiring writers to write a book like I just did and it's not that expensive to do it. The publishing itself costs close to nothing; the costs come from working with others to ensure that the quality is up to par: editing, proofing, designing, audio engineering, etc. And while every writer dreams to have a Random House or McGraw-Hill imprint on their first book, it doesn't have to be that way. You can still improve the quality of your writing while sharing your progress with the rest of the world. And one day, you may get there. Self-publishing a book is just a stepping stone to help you along the way.
I think it was shortly after the Friars Club Roast of Jack Black when I made the decision to write another novel. Amadeo and I interviewed on WDVE about the Roast, there were great stories in the Pittsburgh Tribune Review and Pittsburgh Post Gazette about his victory. I needed to keep writing - but knowing the next Roast wouldn't be for another year, directing that passion to another avenue wasn't entirely easy. So I chose to embark on another project - write my next novel. But this time, I'd do it the right way. I wrote a blog post (see below) in May about my 'plan' for this novel, but after an exhausting ten months, I thought I'd share the entire process from start to finish of "Miss Mezzanine". And who knows - maybe this will help those of you writers waiting for a little push into the scary world of novel writing take the next step:
- April (Brainstorm) - Against popular wisdom in the writing community, I never once wrote an outline for Miss Mezzanine. I did brainstorm though for nearly an entire month. Scattered notes when I was eating lunch at my desk, texting things to myself while in bed so I wouldn't forget the next morning. I'd brainstorm anything - plot points, character traits, critical scenes, important lines. This may have been the most enjoyable part of the experience. And every writer will agree - when an idea is swimming around your head, not only is everything about it 100% full-proof and perfect, but it's all so EASY. You feel like you can write the book in your sleep. Takeaway for writers? Don't try to write a book in your sleep.
- May (First Draft) - My first draft was just a shade under 40,000 words, written in just a shade under a month. In the grand scheme of things, that's a very short amount of time, but my enthusiasm kept me on target with writing anywhere from 500-2,000 words a day, sometimes even more. When my wife went to Italy for a week at the end of May, I took a few days off work, locked myself in the house and did nothing but write. I remember the exact moment when I wrote that last sentence in the book, and celebrated with a glass of wine. Takeaway for writers? Keep pushing through! Never stop during that first draft. There's still so much left to do afterwards, but if you can write a full comprehensive draft and finish it, you know that you've completed a very important first step.
- June (Second Draft) - Once I finished the book, I made a vow not to look at it for at least ten days. I only made it six. Still, that brief time off helped give me a fresh eye, so that when I read the entire draft, I realized how many problems existed. Completely expected, but I knew I had tons of work to do. So I took to the rewrite. And the more I worked on it, the more I realized I wasn't editing an existing draft, but writing an entire new one. Takeaway for writers? You MUST treat your second draft as a rewrite and not just editing a few sentences here and there. Your manuscript is riddled with holes. Don't shy away from them - embrace them, and make the content better! Your readers will thank you for it in the end.
- July-August (Beta Readers) - I took the month off while my five beta readers read the draft and offered up some great notes. That didn't mean I didn't shy away from making a few tweaks here and there while they were reading the draft. You give us a pen (or in my case, a computer) and we're going to write. Takeaway for writers? Embrace the beta-reading process! While all of my five readers' notes were different, each one contributed in some meaningful way by suggesting something that ultimately made the final cut. Even though you're not quite ready to share your writing with the world, share it with a few.
- September-November (Editing) - By the end of August, I had finished my third draft by incorporating all of the beta readers' comments. Now I was ready to bring in my editor, Allison. In my mind, Allison's role was going to be taking my complete draft and whipping it into shape by focusing on line edits, minor notes and a few comments here and there. God, how wrong I was. Despite my beta readers - who definitely provided me valuable feedback, my book was still in very bad shape. And though an editor's job is to help - the realization that even after months of hard work there is still SO MUCH to do - is a hard one for a writer's fragile ego to accept. So our process? She'd read a chapter, give me an incredible amount of notes (see a blog post in late 2013 for specifics), I'd rewrite it, get more notes, rewrite it again. Rinse and repeat. I counted about seven full drafts in total, when you consider the amount of rewriting that took place. Three more months of writing about Jass and Annabelle, every single day, sometimes the same scenes over and over. You start to question whether or not you'll ever feel satisfied. But trust me, that moment will come. Takeaway for writers? Hire an editor. I can write for years and years and years on this topic, and it still won't do it justice. Self-publishing carries a stigma of poor quality along with it, right or wrong. Don't give credence to that stereotype by not ensuring that what you're writing is of the best quality. And you can't possibly do that alone.
- December (Final Draft) - While Allison combed through her final comments, I continued to work behind the scenes to gear up for the publication. I chose Createspace (a subsidiary of Amazon) as my publisher of choice after hearing some great things about the process. More to come on that. When Allison gave me her final comments (even after she'd read the entire draft multiple times now, mind you) - the work i needed to implement her comments and whip my book into a FINAL state was still incredibly high. In addition to her line edits, I counted 107 sidebar comments. Every night, I'd write down how many I combed through, just giving myself a finish line, keeping track of my progress. Takeaway for readers? When you're at that final draft stage, you're so close that you want to just finish the thing and jump straight to production. DON'T. Review it again. Rewrite it again. FIX things. Case in point? An entire new character in my book was added at this stage as a way to address a few unresolved subplots. She wasn't even on my radar. Now she serves an important purpose and has received great feedback from my readers.
- January (Proofing, Publishing) - Once Allison wished me luck to complete the final draft, I knew there was still one more person needed to engage: a proofreader. Allison is brilliant and found an incredible amount of mistakes throughout the writing process (and God knows I've reviewed the thing a hundred times), but it was always important to engage a skilled third party to read through with a fine-tooth comb. He did, and found a good number of things we both missed. Huge help. During his review, that's when I also had the pleasure of both working on the cover with a graphic designer, as well as recording the audiobook with a few friends who have access to a recording studio. Though balancing the juggling balls of proofing, writing, publishing, designing, recording, etc., my adrenaline was at an all time high. With each step crossed off, I knew I was one step closer to finishing the final book and releasing it to the world. On January 27, 2014, I did just that.
When I wrote Miss Mezzanine, I wasn't shooting to write the next Faulkner or Hemingway novel. I only hoped for an engaging experience with some interesting characters that highlights the stress that many near-college graduates feel when they must make decisions on the next component of their lives. The amount of support that I've received so far has been amazing - I just hope that the book lives up to the hype. But the bottom line is that in 2014, tools exist for aspiring writers to write a book like I just did and it's not that expensive to do it. The publishing itself costs close to nothing; the costs come from working with others to ensure that the quality is up to par: editing, proofing, designing, audio engineering, etc. And while every writer dreams to have a Random House or McGraw-Hill imprint on their first book, it doesn't have to be that way. You can still improve the quality of your writing while sharing your progress with the rest of the world. And one day, you may get there. Self-publishing a book is just a stepping stone to help you along the way.
A Completely Self-Indulgent Top 10 List - My Favorite Moments of 2013
December 31, 2013
My favorite part about December are the year-end lists that swarm the internet: Top 10s, Bottom 10s, Most overrated, Biggest Flops, etc. And since I won't see all of the 2013 movies I'd like until well into January, I'm left with something a bit more personal: my favorite moments of 2013. For me. Mike Smith. Yes, this blog post won't likely have the same global appeal as many other lists, but I'm likely to look back on 2013 as my most adventurous yet and it'll be nice one day to look back at this post and reflect on why. And with that, I present to you my personal favorite moments of the year:
10) Emerging Screenwriters (March) - After a handful of rewrites and some great feedback, Amadeo and I finally started submitting our screenplay to a few competitions in late 2012, the last being the Emerging Screenwriters Competition. We weren't expecting much, obviously, just some sign that we were actually capable of crafting a good story that was well received by objective readers. After some strong feedback before the late deadline, we waited a few months for the results. We were thrilled when we found out we were semi-finalists (~top 10%). Say what you will about the validity of these competitions, it's a nice confidence boost, especially for a writer's first feature.
9) Going to the Chapels (Multiple) - My wife and I thrive on attending weddings, and this year was no exception. A weekend trip to Rochester, NY contained one of the most elaborate and beautiful weddings I can remember. We reunited with our awesome wedding photographers two months later at my cousin's wedding, which was also a great night of entertainment, thanks to the terrific planning of my cousin's new bride. And finally, the drinks flowed at the Grand Concourse in November, where I discovered that having Popcorn as an appetizer is a brilliant decision I wish I would have thought of myself.
8) Miss Mezzanine (May-December) - The only reason why working on my fourth book isn't higher on the list is because I technically am not finished. As of this blog post, I'm about two weeks away from being DONE and about a month or so away from holding a printed copy in my hands. Still, while this is technically my fourth book, it's really my first one done RIGHT. Working with extremely talented people in the process, pushed to my literary breaking points. What a wonderful ride this has been, regardless of the final product. Plus, the book really consumed my life for a solid seven months. Oh, and in case you didn't figure it out, Miss Mezzanine is the title of the book. "So, a-there ya go."
7) Home Bound (June) - A great friend of mine decided to dedicate over two years of her life in the Peace Corps, living in a small village in Indonesia and teaching ESL to young children. Not as if we didn't know this from the get-go, but her committing so much time right out of college showed an incredible amount of dedication to helping others. More than most of us will display in a lifetime. Thankfully, we stayed in touch via her blog, Facebook, and letters (that's right, snail mail!). Still, her coming home was one of my favorite moments of the year. It was like she never left. Welcome home, Maryellen.
6) Gate Agent (June) - Production wrapped in late 2012 for our second short film, but the bulk of the work was done in 2013. Making two trips to New York to edit with our director, going back and forth on music samples with our composer, and learning the ins-and-outs of Withoutabox are only some of the projects I worked on throughout the post-production process. And this summer was wonderful, when our film premiered in both my hometown of Pittsburgh and in New York City within tho weeks of each other. Sadly, I missed the New York premiere, but word came back that it was well-received. Hearing people walk out of the theater saying they enjoyed a film we worked so hard on over the past year made it all worth it.
5) Daycare Trip (November) - 2013 marked the year where my niece (now going on three years) really came into her own. She went from a baby to a toddler, and I went from a stranger who was always around to "Uncle Mike". That all culminated one day in November, when a series of events resulted in me picking her up from her daycare. It's not a matter of learning that Riley loved me - I already knew that - but when I opened the door into her classroom, she sprinted toward me and jumped into my arms . I don't have any children of my own yet, but man, nothing quite beats the feeling of having someone so young pick you out of a crowd of people, toys, and games as the thing they are most excited to see.
4) Ligonier Valley (July) - My wife's long-awaited trek to Italy with her family to visit her long lost relatives in the tiny village of Atalate (sp?) marked her 2013 vacation. So, to save on some vacation days, we decided over the summer to make a little weekend trip to Ligonier Valley, Pennsylvania. In what is quickly becoming a nationwide tourist attraction (which I learned from a recent book published by my friend Jen Sopko!), Ligonier is a quaint little town about an hour east of Pittsburgh. It embodies 'nature' and 'small town', and we spent an entire day picnicking in the woods, checking out local shops, eating great food. The night ended with a fight-to-the-finish game of bowling and a nice stay at a cute little Bed & Breakfast, and that was all we needed. Sometimes the best getaways are the small getaways, and that small trip was enough to hold us over until our BIG trip in 2014 to sunny Aruba.
3) Half Marathon (May) - Scroll down if you want to learn more about my marathon experience, a grueling 2+ hours of pain, sweat, and euphoria (in no particular order). Two years ago, I would have laughed at the idea of running 13 miles...in a row, but thanks to my awesome training team (Gabrielle leading the way of course), I finally did it. Running with thousands of other runners helped propel me to the last couple miles and crossing the finish line marked one of the greatest moments of my life. Plus, I was doing it to help raise money for a great cause, which just upped the excitement. I imagine next year's will even better, as I'm running for another organization that means a lot to me. Oh, and I'm definitely beating last year's time.
2) Jack Black Roast (April) - Our experiences with the Friars Club (culminating in Amadeo's roasting Jack Black in front of 2,000+ people) has also been written about quite extensively, so I won't recount the entire experience here. Still, imagine your favorite team in March Madness go from a complete long shot to the lone victor, and you'll understand the great feeling I had when I found out I'd be writing for an event I grew up watching, jokes aimed at comic icons I've idolized over the year. And the end of the "So You Think You Can Roast" competition only marked the beginning of Amadeo's success at the club. Even as recent as three weeks ago, there we were again at the club, roasting. And this time I got to write a few jokes for the Roastmaster General himself, Jeff Ross.
1) Skydiving (August) - In the end though, all of these events take the backseat to my adventures on a warm Sunday in August in Grove City, Pennsylvania. Read below to learn more about my skydiving adventures (probably my favorite blog post on this site). But I'll try to reiterate the main points from that post here: There is nothing...nothing...NOTHING that can compare to the feeling of jumping out of an airplane into the sky. I hyped up those seven minutes for years, and every second delivered. It's an adrenaline rush unlike no other, and though I'll probably never muster up the guts to do take the second jump, this was enough. Skydiving was the story I enjoyed talking about the most this year, and it doesn't bother me to keep repeating the same old stuff. I love reliving those few moments. I can't imagine anything happening again that was so thrilling.
So enough about me and my list. What were your top moments of the year? What do you look forward to most in 2014?
My favorite part about December are the year-end lists that swarm the internet: Top 10s, Bottom 10s, Most overrated, Biggest Flops, etc. And since I won't see all of the 2013 movies I'd like until well into January, I'm left with something a bit more personal: my favorite moments of 2013. For me. Mike Smith. Yes, this blog post won't likely have the same global appeal as many other lists, but I'm likely to look back on 2013 as my most adventurous yet and it'll be nice one day to look back at this post and reflect on why. And with that, I present to you my personal favorite moments of the year:
10) Emerging Screenwriters (March) - After a handful of rewrites and some great feedback, Amadeo and I finally started submitting our screenplay to a few competitions in late 2012, the last being the Emerging Screenwriters Competition. We weren't expecting much, obviously, just some sign that we were actually capable of crafting a good story that was well received by objective readers. After some strong feedback before the late deadline, we waited a few months for the results. We were thrilled when we found out we were semi-finalists (~top 10%). Say what you will about the validity of these competitions, it's a nice confidence boost, especially for a writer's first feature.
9) Going to the Chapels (Multiple) - My wife and I thrive on attending weddings, and this year was no exception. A weekend trip to Rochester, NY contained one of the most elaborate and beautiful weddings I can remember. We reunited with our awesome wedding photographers two months later at my cousin's wedding, which was also a great night of entertainment, thanks to the terrific planning of my cousin's new bride. And finally, the drinks flowed at the Grand Concourse in November, where I discovered that having Popcorn as an appetizer is a brilliant decision I wish I would have thought of myself.
8) Miss Mezzanine (May-December) - The only reason why working on my fourth book isn't higher on the list is because I technically am not finished. As of this blog post, I'm about two weeks away from being DONE and about a month or so away from holding a printed copy in my hands. Still, while this is technically my fourth book, it's really my first one done RIGHT. Working with extremely talented people in the process, pushed to my literary breaking points. What a wonderful ride this has been, regardless of the final product. Plus, the book really consumed my life for a solid seven months. Oh, and in case you didn't figure it out, Miss Mezzanine is the title of the book. "So, a-there ya go."
7) Home Bound (June) - A great friend of mine decided to dedicate over two years of her life in the Peace Corps, living in a small village in Indonesia and teaching ESL to young children. Not as if we didn't know this from the get-go, but her committing so much time right out of college showed an incredible amount of dedication to helping others. More than most of us will display in a lifetime. Thankfully, we stayed in touch via her blog, Facebook, and letters (that's right, snail mail!). Still, her coming home was one of my favorite moments of the year. It was like she never left. Welcome home, Maryellen.
6) Gate Agent (June) - Production wrapped in late 2012 for our second short film, but the bulk of the work was done in 2013. Making two trips to New York to edit with our director, going back and forth on music samples with our composer, and learning the ins-and-outs of Withoutabox are only some of the projects I worked on throughout the post-production process. And this summer was wonderful, when our film premiered in both my hometown of Pittsburgh and in New York City within tho weeks of each other. Sadly, I missed the New York premiere, but word came back that it was well-received. Hearing people walk out of the theater saying they enjoyed a film we worked so hard on over the past year made it all worth it.
5) Daycare Trip (November) - 2013 marked the year where my niece (now going on three years) really came into her own. She went from a baby to a toddler, and I went from a stranger who was always around to "Uncle Mike". That all culminated one day in November, when a series of events resulted in me picking her up from her daycare. It's not a matter of learning that Riley loved me - I already knew that - but when I opened the door into her classroom, she sprinted toward me and jumped into my arms . I don't have any children of my own yet, but man, nothing quite beats the feeling of having someone so young pick you out of a crowd of people, toys, and games as the thing they are most excited to see.
4) Ligonier Valley (July) - My wife's long-awaited trek to Italy with her family to visit her long lost relatives in the tiny village of Atalate (sp?) marked her 2013 vacation. So, to save on some vacation days, we decided over the summer to make a little weekend trip to Ligonier Valley, Pennsylvania. In what is quickly becoming a nationwide tourist attraction (which I learned from a recent book published by my friend Jen Sopko!), Ligonier is a quaint little town about an hour east of Pittsburgh. It embodies 'nature' and 'small town', and we spent an entire day picnicking in the woods, checking out local shops, eating great food. The night ended with a fight-to-the-finish game of bowling and a nice stay at a cute little Bed & Breakfast, and that was all we needed. Sometimes the best getaways are the small getaways, and that small trip was enough to hold us over until our BIG trip in 2014 to sunny Aruba.
3) Half Marathon (May) - Scroll down if you want to learn more about my marathon experience, a grueling 2+ hours of pain, sweat, and euphoria (in no particular order). Two years ago, I would have laughed at the idea of running 13 miles...in a row, but thanks to my awesome training team (Gabrielle leading the way of course), I finally did it. Running with thousands of other runners helped propel me to the last couple miles and crossing the finish line marked one of the greatest moments of my life. Plus, I was doing it to help raise money for a great cause, which just upped the excitement. I imagine next year's will even better, as I'm running for another organization that means a lot to me. Oh, and I'm definitely beating last year's time.
2) Jack Black Roast (April) - Our experiences with the Friars Club (culminating in Amadeo's roasting Jack Black in front of 2,000+ people) has also been written about quite extensively, so I won't recount the entire experience here. Still, imagine your favorite team in March Madness go from a complete long shot to the lone victor, and you'll understand the great feeling I had when I found out I'd be writing for an event I grew up watching, jokes aimed at comic icons I've idolized over the year. And the end of the "So You Think You Can Roast" competition only marked the beginning of Amadeo's success at the club. Even as recent as three weeks ago, there we were again at the club, roasting. And this time I got to write a few jokes for the Roastmaster General himself, Jeff Ross.
1) Skydiving (August) - In the end though, all of these events take the backseat to my adventures on a warm Sunday in August in Grove City, Pennsylvania. Read below to learn more about my skydiving adventures (probably my favorite blog post on this site). But I'll try to reiterate the main points from that post here: There is nothing...nothing...NOTHING that can compare to the feeling of jumping out of an airplane into the sky. I hyped up those seven minutes for years, and every second delivered. It's an adrenaline rush unlike no other, and though I'll probably never muster up the guts to do take the second jump, this was enough. Skydiving was the story I enjoyed talking about the most this year, and it doesn't bother me to keep repeating the same old stuff. I love reliving those few moments. I can't imagine anything happening again that was so thrilling.
So enough about me and my list. What were your top moments of the year? What do you look forward to most in 2014?
An Open Apology to Twitter
October 15, 2013
Dear Twitter,
Hi, this is Mike Smith (@mikesmithwriter). I doubt you know me from the 200 million users that frequent your website on a regular basis, frequently posting 140 characters worth of life observations and pithy insults. You have better things to do. Still, I felt it incumbent upon to me to send you a formal apology – we’ll call it a revelation – for misjudging you all of these years.
You see Twitter, I have been avoiding you like the plague since 2011, rejecting your so-called “social media” site, which is really nothing more than destroying the English language by limiting rational thoughts to 140 characters at a time (which in many cases is nothing more than one sentence). Unlike Facebook, Twitter doesn’t pride itself in overlong narratives or statuses, instead choosing to cut communication off at the knees by forcing people to minimalize their mind vomit to two lines worth of text. As a writer, the thought of abbreviating or modifying words, phrases or sentences because there isn’t enough space horrified me! I want to say what I want to say – how dare you obstruct my speech! You see how misguided I was?
The truth is, it didn’t take long after finally joining this April to learn that Twitter is actually a great site, as well as a compliment to my existing profiles on Facebook and LinkedIn. Twitter has served as an appropriate forum for me to blast out random thoughts (which would probably
freak out my Facebook friends, mostly high school and college buddies, immediate and extended family members). And re-tweeting? What a marvelous idea! Spicing up your profile page with a little variety and someone else’s words without having to worry about retyping anything? Sure, you can “share” stuff on Facebook but this is a much cleaner approach. I’ve also come to learn that Twitter is incredibly oversaturated with wit, unlike say Facebook which is oversaturated with cat pictures, wedding photos and app requests. People are funny on Twitter, and with great wit also comes easy reading, since my tired brain never has to strain itself more than a few moments to ‘get’ the joke.
Finally, I’ve connected with other writers and artists in ways that would be too creepy to try and do on Facebook. One click and I’m reading
the tweets of industry professionals, often engaging them in short conversations about movies, scripts, writing, etc. Given the limited focus on personal information on Twitter profiles, the result is a much more user-friendly experience for professional networking, something I never would have imagined prior to signing up. I try to be around my computer every Sunday night for #scriptchat, a virtual conversation on various screenwriting techniques, ideas, feedback, etc. in which a number of people participate, always with great feedback and insight. I’ve actually connected to a few writers from Twitter exchanges that have resulted in real projects underway, and Twitter’s informal approach to a formal business is well-suited for this type of collaboration.
So Twitter, let me apologize again for not joining earlier, which would have served really well when shooting and promoting“The Gate Agent”, or
connecting with people in Pittsburgh/New York who could have been involved with the film. #scriptchat might have helped too, maybe allowing me to connect with a few writers before sending out our feature length screenplay to a ton of contests and industry professionals. I hope our relationship isn’t strained and that my bandwagon-hopping proves that I finally have embraced 2013 technology. Now all I need to do is trade in my flip phone, and I’m in business.
Sincerely,
Mike Smith (@mikesmithwriter)
P.S. – The hashtag? F###ing genius.
Dear Twitter,
Hi, this is Mike Smith (@mikesmithwriter). I doubt you know me from the 200 million users that frequent your website on a regular basis, frequently posting 140 characters worth of life observations and pithy insults. You have better things to do. Still, I felt it incumbent upon to me to send you a formal apology – we’ll call it a revelation – for misjudging you all of these years.
You see Twitter, I have been avoiding you like the plague since 2011, rejecting your so-called “social media” site, which is really nothing more than destroying the English language by limiting rational thoughts to 140 characters at a time (which in many cases is nothing more than one sentence). Unlike Facebook, Twitter doesn’t pride itself in overlong narratives or statuses, instead choosing to cut communication off at the knees by forcing people to minimalize their mind vomit to two lines worth of text. As a writer, the thought of abbreviating or modifying words, phrases or sentences because there isn’t enough space horrified me! I want to say what I want to say – how dare you obstruct my speech! You see how misguided I was?
The truth is, it didn’t take long after finally joining this April to learn that Twitter is actually a great site, as well as a compliment to my existing profiles on Facebook and LinkedIn. Twitter has served as an appropriate forum for me to blast out random thoughts (which would probably
freak out my Facebook friends, mostly high school and college buddies, immediate and extended family members). And re-tweeting? What a marvelous idea! Spicing up your profile page with a little variety and someone else’s words without having to worry about retyping anything? Sure, you can “share” stuff on Facebook but this is a much cleaner approach. I’ve also come to learn that Twitter is incredibly oversaturated with wit, unlike say Facebook which is oversaturated with cat pictures, wedding photos and app requests. People are funny on Twitter, and with great wit also comes easy reading, since my tired brain never has to strain itself more than a few moments to ‘get’ the joke.
Finally, I’ve connected with other writers and artists in ways that would be too creepy to try and do on Facebook. One click and I’m reading
the tweets of industry professionals, often engaging them in short conversations about movies, scripts, writing, etc. Given the limited focus on personal information on Twitter profiles, the result is a much more user-friendly experience for professional networking, something I never would have imagined prior to signing up. I try to be around my computer every Sunday night for #scriptchat, a virtual conversation on various screenwriting techniques, ideas, feedback, etc. in which a number of people participate, always with great feedback and insight. I’ve actually connected to a few writers from Twitter exchanges that have resulted in real projects underway, and Twitter’s informal approach to a formal business is well-suited for this type of collaboration.
So Twitter, let me apologize again for not joining earlier, which would have served really well when shooting and promoting“The Gate Agent”, or
connecting with people in Pittsburgh/New York who could have been involved with the film. #scriptchat might have helped too, maybe allowing me to connect with a few writers before sending out our feature length screenplay to a ton of contests and industry professionals. I hope our relationship isn’t strained and that my bandwagon-hopping proves that I finally have embraced 2013 technology. Now all I need to do is trade in my flip phone, and I’m in business.
Sincerely,
Mike Smith (@mikesmithwriter)
P.S. – The hashtag? F###ing genius.
Red Ink
September 15, 2013
Right now, my fourth cup of empty coffee (decaf still!) sits next to my mouse, as I stare at the brightly-lit double monitors just inches in from my face. On the right monitor sits Chapter 2 of my book, the perfectly-chosen words that represent the main character's development and story-telling capabilities. On the left monitor (see graphic) are my editor's comments, filled with changes, edits, comments, questions and reasons why the perfectly-chosen words are in fact nowhere near close to what the end product should be. The double monitor approach helps, as it provides the opportunity to glance at non-marked up text from time to time, just to offer a bit of condolences that what was on the page before isn't all that bad.
Yes, that entire paragraph dripped with sarcasm, but the writer/editor dynamic differs little from the athlete/coach or the student/teacher. In all cases, you have someone with potential to learn/win/create, but in need of someone who possesses the skills to hone that talent/ambition/eagerness in a direction that can help them best acheive their goals. I think I spouted something similar in my beta-readers post, but it bears repeating: no writer is good enough on their own. Period. The books and screenplays of the world would be incredibly shitty without the scrutinizing that comes from a good edit, yet so many new writers believe it's their story/movie that can be written in a week in their basement and be ready for distribution. Maybe it's because a good chunk of my 9-5 job consists of editing other people's work (and others editing my own), but that sort of optimism died the moment I graduated college. Still, I thought I'd take you on a brief trip through the editing process for those non-writers who happen to be reading this post.
The graphic above is an actual screenshot of an edited page of my book. You'll notice there are two components:
1) "The Red Marks" directly in the text, where my editor fixes, cleans up, phrases better, etc. any text that currently exists on the page.
2) "The Comments", which consist of questions, opinions, justifications, more questions, requests etc.
The first stuff are the fun, easy parts. Someone else is fixing stuff for me? Sweet! But it's the second kind that can really rack your brain, the abstract questions on how to approach a sentence, scene or character in a way that you hadn't yet explored. And it are those sidebar comments that separates an "editor" from a "proofreader", and where my editor's true value shines. Some of those comments are easy ones to address: "Is this paragraph really needed?" (which follows with a quick 'delete' button). But then there are the others, like "You need to elaborate on this action more. How does this affect xxxx and what is he experiencing as it happens?" On one comment today, I literally spent twenty minutes trying to fix one sentence because one rhetorical question put me through a ringer trying to clean up a paragraph that just days ago seemed ok. But that's the point: it wasn't ok. And while your editor can nudge you in the right direction, only the writer can make the necessary fixes. Same with the student/teacher and the athlete/coach. You can be trained until you drop or be taught lesson after lesson, but only the student can take the test and only the athlete can run the race.
I've read hundreds of books in my life, but never an early, unpublished draft of a well-known author, so I've never had the opportunity to compare how a writer can get from point A to point B. But diving into the trenches during these past couple months really makes me want to get my hands on the first draft of something like The Great Gatsby or Catcher in the Rye just to see how it could have headed without the editor pulling in the reigns.
Over the past four months (and more to come...), I've slaved away at this book, trying to find the right voice for my main character and tell an interesting story that will hopefully capitivate readers on some level. But nothing has benefitted the progress of this book more than my editor's insightful comments and edits. When I finally finish and release my story to the readers, you can thank her that it didn't go off in some God-awful direction that includes poorly-written exposition and lackluster dialogue. So a BIG thank you, Allison, from me and anyone who reads the book in the future.
P.S. This blog post would have been much better if my editor could have had her hands on it first :)
Right now, my fourth cup of empty coffee (decaf still!) sits next to my mouse, as I stare at the brightly-lit double monitors just inches in from my face. On the right monitor sits Chapter 2 of my book, the perfectly-chosen words that represent the main character's development and story-telling capabilities. On the left monitor (see graphic) are my editor's comments, filled with changes, edits, comments, questions and reasons why the perfectly-chosen words are in fact nowhere near close to what the end product should be. The double monitor approach helps, as it provides the opportunity to glance at non-marked up text from time to time, just to offer a bit of condolences that what was on the page before isn't all that bad.
Yes, that entire paragraph dripped with sarcasm, but the writer/editor dynamic differs little from the athlete/coach or the student/teacher. In all cases, you have someone with potential to learn/win/create, but in need of someone who possesses the skills to hone that talent/ambition/eagerness in a direction that can help them best acheive their goals. I think I spouted something similar in my beta-readers post, but it bears repeating: no writer is good enough on their own. Period. The books and screenplays of the world would be incredibly shitty without the scrutinizing that comes from a good edit, yet so many new writers believe it's their story/movie that can be written in a week in their basement and be ready for distribution. Maybe it's because a good chunk of my 9-5 job consists of editing other people's work (and others editing my own), but that sort of optimism died the moment I graduated college. Still, I thought I'd take you on a brief trip through the editing process for those non-writers who happen to be reading this post.
The graphic above is an actual screenshot of an edited page of my book. You'll notice there are two components:
1) "The Red Marks" directly in the text, where my editor fixes, cleans up, phrases better, etc. any text that currently exists on the page.
2) "The Comments", which consist of questions, opinions, justifications, more questions, requests etc.
The first stuff are the fun, easy parts. Someone else is fixing stuff for me? Sweet! But it's the second kind that can really rack your brain, the abstract questions on how to approach a sentence, scene or character in a way that you hadn't yet explored. And it are those sidebar comments that separates an "editor" from a "proofreader", and where my editor's true value shines. Some of those comments are easy ones to address: "Is this paragraph really needed?" (which follows with a quick 'delete' button). But then there are the others, like "You need to elaborate on this action more. How does this affect xxxx and what is he experiencing as it happens?" On one comment today, I literally spent twenty minutes trying to fix one sentence because one rhetorical question put me through a ringer trying to clean up a paragraph that just days ago seemed ok. But that's the point: it wasn't ok. And while your editor can nudge you in the right direction, only the writer can make the necessary fixes. Same with the student/teacher and the athlete/coach. You can be trained until you drop or be taught lesson after lesson, but only the student can take the test and only the athlete can run the race.
I've read hundreds of books in my life, but never an early, unpublished draft of a well-known author, so I've never had the opportunity to compare how a writer can get from point A to point B. But diving into the trenches during these past couple months really makes me want to get my hands on the first draft of something like The Great Gatsby or Catcher in the Rye just to see how it could have headed without the editor pulling in the reigns.
Over the past four months (and more to come...), I've slaved away at this book, trying to find the right voice for my main character and tell an interesting story that will hopefully capitivate readers on some level. But nothing has benefitted the progress of this book more than my editor's insightful comments and edits. When I finally finish and release my story to the readers, you can thank her that it didn't go off in some God-awful direction that includes poorly-written exposition and lackluster dialogue. So a BIG thank you, Allison, from me and anyone who reads the book in the future.
P.S. This blog post would have been much better if my editor could have had her hands on it first :)
Life at 13,500 Feet
August 7, 2013
I can recall the exact moment when I first got the itch to want to go skydiving. It was around fourth grade when the movie "Drop Zone" came out, and I watched scene after scene of death-defying stunts, looking at my older brother and saying "This would be so cool". Since then, at least once a year my friends would have to hear one of my tirades about how THIS would be the time I'd do it, but each time it seemed further and further from my reach, as more important things would get in the way of taking such a huge risk. This year, my wife Gabrielle finally got sick of my empty dreamin', and bought me a free tandem jump for my birthday. And after three months of lounging around, I finally cashed it in on Sunday. To those who are curious about the experience (whether or not you have any inclination to try this yourself), the entire journey - beyond the time spent in the sky - is something I will likely cherish, even if I drift into senility at old age. It's a lifelong dream, the one item on my 'bucket list' that I would never forgive myself if I didn't cross off. But getting there wasn't easy.
Unlike say, going to a movie or grabbing a drink, not many people will choose to join you if you ask them to jump out of an airplane. My one uncle also wanted to cross this off on his bucket list, and the plan was to wait until September or October and go together. But then July happened. Within 10 days, I read about a woman falling from a roller coaster, a husband and wife going hiking and one of them dying, two friends who got lost hiking, returned safely but then died on the way home, a train crash in Spain, a bus crash in Italy, etc, etc. So many awful stories - all of them about people who woke up one morning, having no idea that it would be their last day on Earth. I started questioning everything I was doing- why, after all these innocent people wound up killed am I intentionally putting myself in such a risky situation by choosing to skydive? The anxiety starting building up, and I told Gabrielle that I needed to jump, ASAP, get this thing over with before I backed out. Four days later, I was en route.
My gift certificate was through Skydive PA, which - if not the only - is certainly the most prominent skydiving site in Western PA, located in the heart of Grove City. I told a minimal amount of people beforehand, knowing there was a potential I would chicken out at the last minute. My dad was down to watch though - though he told me repeatedly that I was crazy for even wanting to 'jump out of a perfectly good airplane'. When we arrived at Skydive PA, I was surprised at how many people were already there. The parking lot was full of cars, and inside the place looked like a giant locker room, people standing around waiting to jump, others in suits just returning from a trip, and a group of workers rolling up and rigging parachutes for the next set of tandems. As soon I registered, I had to filter through about 20 pages worth of documents, signing my life away in the event that something goes wrong. And though they operated almost like a factory, the place was running a bit behind (due to some high winds), so I had to sweat it out even longer, having a difficult time standing still and instead pacing around the building and trying to keep myself distracted. The worst part was that the landing field was a mile or so away from where the plane took off, so I never had the chance to watch anyone land, which - given the probable excitement on their faces - may have eased my fears. Eventually, the girl running the show took to a microphone and called the next round of tandem jumpers, four women (two young friends, two older ladies) and me.
Even that wasn't when I knew there was no turning back. It was when I was strapped into my jumpsuit, that my adrenaline (or fear?) peaked. I looked down at myself - I'm about to jump out of a fucking airplane. And I was excited for sure, but a small part of me wished a thunderstorm would start that could excuse me from the trip. But that didn't happen. Instead, I listened to a nice instructor (I think her name was 'Jamie') go over the procedures and what to expect. I listened to every word like it meant my life (I guess it did?), but here's a quick snapshot of how tandem jumping works:
For the most part, people have asked me the same few questions about the experience: Was it scary? How was it jumping out? What was the best part? This was one of those times when I loved getting asked the same questions over and over, since each time provided me a chance to revisit those eight minutes in the air. To me, jumping out of an airplane and falling through the sky was the most exhilarating moment of my life and will likely never be topped. The only scary part was the anticipation in the days, hours and minutes prior; once I left the plane though, that all disappeared.
The only question I have a hard time answering is "Will you ever do it again?" Before Sunday, I would have told you I wanted to do it once, cross it off my list and move on. There's a strong part of me now that would love to go back, re-live this same experience now that I have a better understanding of what exactly to expect. Will that happen? Maybe, if the opportunity presents itself and other people were with me. Does it matter? No. I went skydiving, something I've been talking about since I was a kid, and the experience was worth the wait. And I'm fortunate enough to not only remember the experience with perfect clarity but to also have a forum that I can write everything down and share with other people. Memories like that don't require repeating.
I can recall the exact moment when I first got the itch to want to go skydiving. It was around fourth grade when the movie "Drop Zone" came out, and I watched scene after scene of death-defying stunts, looking at my older brother and saying "This would be so cool". Since then, at least once a year my friends would have to hear one of my tirades about how THIS would be the time I'd do it, but each time it seemed further and further from my reach, as more important things would get in the way of taking such a huge risk. This year, my wife Gabrielle finally got sick of my empty dreamin', and bought me a free tandem jump for my birthday. And after three months of lounging around, I finally cashed it in on Sunday. To those who are curious about the experience (whether or not you have any inclination to try this yourself), the entire journey - beyond the time spent in the sky - is something I will likely cherish, even if I drift into senility at old age. It's a lifelong dream, the one item on my 'bucket list' that I would never forgive myself if I didn't cross off. But getting there wasn't easy.
Unlike say, going to a movie or grabbing a drink, not many people will choose to join you if you ask them to jump out of an airplane. My one uncle also wanted to cross this off on his bucket list, and the plan was to wait until September or October and go together. But then July happened. Within 10 days, I read about a woman falling from a roller coaster, a husband and wife going hiking and one of them dying, two friends who got lost hiking, returned safely but then died on the way home, a train crash in Spain, a bus crash in Italy, etc, etc. So many awful stories - all of them about people who woke up one morning, having no idea that it would be their last day on Earth. I started questioning everything I was doing- why, after all these innocent people wound up killed am I intentionally putting myself in such a risky situation by choosing to skydive? The anxiety starting building up, and I told Gabrielle that I needed to jump, ASAP, get this thing over with before I backed out. Four days later, I was en route.
My gift certificate was through Skydive PA, which - if not the only - is certainly the most prominent skydiving site in Western PA, located in the heart of Grove City. I told a minimal amount of people beforehand, knowing there was a potential I would chicken out at the last minute. My dad was down to watch though - though he told me repeatedly that I was crazy for even wanting to 'jump out of a perfectly good airplane'. When we arrived at Skydive PA, I was surprised at how many people were already there. The parking lot was full of cars, and inside the place looked like a giant locker room, people standing around waiting to jump, others in suits just returning from a trip, and a group of workers rolling up and rigging parachutes for the next set of tandems. As soon I registered, I had to filter through about 20 pages worth of documents, signing my life away in the event that something goes wrong. And though they operated almost like a factory, the place was running a bit behind (due to some high winds), so I had to sweat it out even longer, having a difficult time standing still and instead pacing around the building and trying to keep myself distracted. The worst part was that the landing field was a mile or so away from where the plane took off, so I never had the chance to watch anyone land, which - given the probable excitement on their faces - may have eased my fears. Eventually, the girl running the show took to a microphone and called the next round of tandem jumpers, four women (two young friends, two older ladies) and me.
Even that wasn't when I knew there was no turning back. It was when I was strapped into my jumpsuit, that my adrenaline (or fear?) peaked. I looked down at myself - I'm about to jump out of a fucking airplane. And I was excited for sure, but a small part of me wished a thunderstorm would start that could excuse me from the trip. But that didn't happen. Instead, I listened to a nice instructor (I think her name was 'Jamie') go over the procedures and what to expect. I listened to every word like it meant my life (I guess it did?), but here's a quick snapshot of how tandem jumping works:
- "Any Closer and We'd Need to Apply for a Marriage Certificate." The tiny plane consists of two small benches, and everyone is stacked, one person behind another, all facing forward. No space whatsover for movement. At one point, I had to hoist myself onto my tandem jumper's lap so he could connect our straps even tighter than they already were. And my guy - "Ron" - was super cool the entire way through. At one point I jokingly asked if he was generally happy with the direction of his life, or if there were any personal issues we needed to work out prior to our tandem. All of the guys in the plane had a sense of humor about their job/hobby, and that helped ease the mood in all of us newbies.
- "Hold on Tight to Those Straps." When you jump out of the plane, you technically don't jump, so much as fall out. You're literally attached to a human being, so together you both have to scoot up to the open door. Ron and I were the last ones to go, so I had the pleasure/misfortune of watching everyone start before me. "Well I can't back out now" I thought to myself. Ron and I got to the door, and - with me in front - I rested my knees on a tiny platform that's partly outside the plane. I crossed my arms, gripping my straps, and within seconds, I heard Ron yell "READY - SET - GO!". And so began the freefall.
- "You're Gonna Wanna Kick Your Instructor's butt." We were told that as soon as we exit the aircraft to wrap our legs around the back of our instructor's. Given the way your bodies are positioned, sticking your legs straight out heightened your chances of spinning out, causing the instructor to have no choice but to cut away from the chute and use the reserve. No thanks. And so I did just that - having something to immediately focus on when I exited the plane eradicated the fear, and once my legs were in place I was able to enjoy the fall without worrying about following instructions.
- "Breathe Through Your Nose, Look at the Horizon." This was the only (minor) downside to my jump. Jamie told us to breathe through our noses - given the thin oxygen and the air pressure, breathing through your mouth was very difficult, and could set off a series of quick intermittent breaths that may result in passing out mid-air. I wasn't close to passing out, but at one point I accidentally breathed through my mouth, and it took about ten seconds to balance myself out through my nose, causing my eyes to water a bit. Amazing how something as simple as breathing can require so much effort. Jamie also told us to look straight ahead - which I did, especially when we went through the clouds. But I couldn't help the occasional look straight down.
- "You Want to Steer?" After 60 seconds of freefalling at 120 mph, the instructor pulls the chute. For some reason I expected a major upright jerk, but I barely felt it. Once the chute was pulled, I remember screaming the words "THAT WAS FUCKING AWESOME!", and when Ron laughed with me, and I knew for sure that the chute was open and active, I let out a huge sigh, knowing that the scary part was over. I didn’t hesitate looking down again at that point, and it was neat to see the landing field from so high up. I could even make out my dad – a little blip next to his blue truck – staring up at the sky and watching our group descend. The ride at that point is a smooth six-eight minutes.
- "Knees up, Legs Out." Tandem jumpers typically don't land on their feet; instead, they're advised to raise their legs up in the air, land on their butts and glide to the finish. Ron went over this twice with me, and I still managed to screw it up. I raised my legs, but clearly didn't hold them up enough, so when my feet hit the ground we did a minor tumble. Nothing crazy, but I looked like a jackass.
For the most part, people have asked me the same few questions about the experience: Was it scary? How was it jumping out? What was the best part? This was one of those times when I loved getting asked the same questions over and over, since each time provided me a chance to revisit those eight minutes in the air. To me, jumping out of an airplane and falling through the sky was the most exhilarating moment of my life and will likely never be topped. The only scary part was the anticipation in the days, hours and minutes prior; once I left the plane though, that all disappeared.
The only question I have a hard time answering is "Will you ever do it again?" Before Sunday, I would have told you I wanted to do it once, cross it off my list and move on. There's a strong part of me now that would love to go back, re-live this same experience now that I have a better understanding of what exactly to expect. Will that happen? Maybe, if the opportunity presents itself and other people were with me. Does it matter? No. I went skydiving, something I've been talking about since I was a kid, and the experience was worth the wait. And I'm fortunate enough to not only remember the experience with perfect clarity but to also have a forum that I can write everything down and share with other people. Memories like that don't require repeating.
Rockin' Our First Festival
June 16, 2013
For the past six weeks, I've been looking forward to attending the Pittsburgh Independent Film Festival, our first festival submission since post-production wrapped for "The Gate Agent". When we found out in May that our film was received, I was thrilled - having the film's official premiere in my hometown was the perfect start to our festival circuit. Even more, I was just looking forward to meeting other filmmakers, learning about their films and the behind-the scenes stories that went into their productions. I couldn't have been more thrilled with the results.
The festival ran from Friday-Sunday, so Damiano, Amadeo and I all went Friday night to catch as much as we could during the first block of films. The first film - "Broadway's Finest" was an amusing independent film made in New York City about a group of actors pretending to be undercover cops to conduct research for a play. Audience was limited, but after that film ended, the festival crowded with people - no seats, standing room only - for "Grounded", a documentary by Pittsburgh-born filmmaker Sean Patrick Crowell. The movie was outright hilarious: a true story about two Pittsburgh brothers who became huge pot smugglers by flying in planes full of weed from the Caribbean to the States. The documentary contained interviews from both the brothers (who were in attendance!) and the federal agents who eventually arrested them in Alabama. The interviews were balanced, informative and most of all humorous, focusing primarily on the flights and the tense moments they encountered before eventually being arrested and turned into a public lesson by the Governor. They were natural storytellers, and Crowell successfully navigated through what was probably two-to-three years worth of research to form a 65-minute, crisp and easy-to-watch movie. There was a Q&A afterwards and he answered over a dozen questions about the process, and at the end Festival Director Ronald Quigley presented him with an award for Best Feature of the festival. Well earned. I had the privilege of speaking with Sean afterwards, and he was so outgoing and friendly, and encouraging of our film and Pittsburgh-filmmaking in general.
I came back Saturday morning to catch the early block of documentaries, three of which were made by filmmakers who were in attendance. I especially enjoyed "Just Passing By", a 14-minute documentary about encounters with random New Yorkers, and their stories/experiences from all around the world. It has a great message - that everyone you pass on the street has a story to tell, and that every stranger is worth listening to, if even for a moment. The subjects were all interesting and even though only a few minutes were spent with each, all offered some of the great pleasures and/or tragedies in their lives, and every minute of the film was authentic. I had the pleasure of getting to know the director, Susanne Dollnig, and it was great hearing about the work she did and the people she met over her journey of putting the film together. I also met Charles Pieper, who made a quirky 7-minute narrative based on an article from the 1900s about a crazed drifter that entered a Chicago-diner spewing some insane (and often hilarious) soliloquies. Charles was based in L.A; Susanne was based in New York. They both flew to Pittsburgh on their own dime to watch their premieres, something so admirable, and admittedly something that would be hard for me to do, as excited as I am about "The Gate Agent".
Our short film was shown Saturday afternoon with a block of five others; in addition to random people attending the festival, we had about 30 or so family and friends show up to support the film. From the bottom of my heart (and I speak for the cast & crew as well), we deeply appreciated you being there. Making a film is about connecting with the audience, so having the people most important to us be in attendance, watching our film on a big screen, is an overwhelming feeling that I'll forever cherish. After the film, Damiano, Amadeo and I took the stage to answer some great questions from the crowd; it was our first chance to address the film publicly and it brought me back to the great memories I had during production and post-production. To those in the cast & crew who were not in attendance (Sarah, Alexa, Mike, Rebecca, Chris), you were missed but your presence in the film was met with praise from all angles. At least twenty people approached me after the film and commented on specific components - "That girl who played The Gate Agent was superb!", "The music was amazing!", "So many great shots!" - and so I did my absolute best to give justice to your work on the movie.
Now that the festival has concluded, I can reflect on how much I learned in just a short period of time. There were films of all kind - documentaries, narratives, shorts, webisodes, high budget, low budget, quirky, funny, dramatic, scary - I can go on forever. But everyone who either submitted a film (215 were submitted, 60 were shown) or attended the festival all shared a love of film-making, and for that I am thankful to be part of that movement. I met some great filmmakers with whom I hope to spawn professional relationships, and I hope that the Pittsburgh Independent Film Festival is only the first of many opportunities that we'll be able to show "The Gate Agent" to new audiences. So again, to those that attended, you have my deepest thanks; I hope your time there was as enjoyable and informative as it was for me.
Onto New York, where "The Gate Agent" will be screened at the Film Anthology Archives on Friday, June 28.
For the past six weeks, I've been looking forward to attending the Pittsburgh Independent Film Festival, our first festival submission since post-production wrapped for "The Gate Agent". When we found out in May that our film was received, I was thrilled - having the film's official premiere in my hometown was the perfect start to our festival circuit. Even more, I was just looking forward to meeting other filmmakers, learning about their films and the behind-the scenes stories that went into their productions. I couldn't have been more thrilled with the results.
The festival ran from Friday-Sunday, so Damiano, Amadeo and I all went Friday night to catch as much as we could during the first block of films. The first film - "Broadway's Finest" was an amusing independent film made in New York City about a group of actors pretending to be undercover cops to conduct research for a play. Audience was limited, but after that film ended, the festival crowded with people - no seats, standing room only - for "Grounded", a documentary by Pittsburgh-born filmmaker Sean Patrick Crowell. The movie was outright hilarious: a true story about two Pittsburgh brothers who became huge pot smugglers by flying in planes full of weed from the Caribbean to the States. The documentary contained interviews from both the brothers (who were in attendance!) and the federal agents who eventually arrested them in Alabama. The interviews were balanced, informative and most of all humorous, focusing primarily on the flights and the tense moments they encountered before eventually being arrested and turned into a public lesson by the Governor. They were natural storytellers, and Crowell successfully navigated through what was probably two-to-three years worth of research to form a 65-minute, crisp and easy-to-watch movie. There was a Q&A afterwards and he answered over a dozen questions about the process, and at the end Festival Director Ronald Quigley presented him with an award for Best Feature of the festival. Well earned. I had the privilege of speaking with Sean afterwards, and he was so outgoing and friendly, and encouraging of our film and Pittsburgh-filmmaking in general.
I came back Saturday morning to catch the early block of documentaries, three of which were made by filmmakers who were in attendance. I especially enjoyed "Just Passing By", a 14-minute documentary about encounters with random New Yorkers, and their stories/experiences from all around the world. It has a great message - that everyone you pass on the street has a story to tell, and that every stranger is worth listening to, if even for a moment. The subjects were all interesting and even though only a few minutes were spent with each, all offered some of the great pleasures and/or tragedies in their lives, and every minute of the film was authentic. I had the pleasure of getting to know the director, Susanne Dollnig, and it was great hearing about the work she did and the people she met over her journey of putting the film together. I also met Charles Pieper, who made a quirky 7-minute narrative based on an article from the 1900s about a crazed drifter that entered a Chicago-diner spewing some insane (and often hilarious) soliloquies. Charles was based in L.A; Susanne was based in New York. They both flew to Pittsburgh on their own dime to watch their premieres, something so admirable, and admittedly something that would be hard for me to do, as excited as I am about "The Gate Agent".
Our short film was shown Saturday afternoon with a block of five others; in addition to random people attending the festival, we had about 30 or so family and friends show up to support the film. From the bottom of my heart (and I speak for the cast & crew as well), we deeply appreciated you being there. Making a film is about connecting with the audience, so having the people most important to us be in attendance, watching our film on a big screen, is an overwhelming feeling that I'll forever cherish. After the film, Damiano, Amadeo and I took the stage to answer some great questions from the crowd; it was our first chance to address the film publicly and it brought me back to the great memories I had during production and post-production. To those in the cast & crew who were not in attendance (Sarah, Alexa, Mike, Rebecca, Chris), you were missed but your presence in the film was met with praise from all angles. At least twenty people approached me after the film and commented on specific components - "That girl who played The Gate Agent was superb!", "The music was amazing!", "So many great shots!" - and so I did my absolute best to give justice to your work on the movie.
Now that the festival has concluded, I can reflect on how much I learned in just a short period of time. There were films of all kind - documentaries, narratives, shorts, webisodes, high budget, low budget, quirky, funny, dramatic, scary - I can go on forever. But everyone who either submitted a film (215 were submitted, 60 were shown) or attended the festival all shared a love of film-making, and for that I am thankful to be part of that movement. I met some great filmmakers with whom I hope to spawn professional relationships, and I hope that the Pittsburgh Independent Film Festival is only the first of many opportunities that we'll be able to show "The Gate Agent" to new audiences. So again, to those that attended, you have my deepest thanks; I hope your time there was as enjoyable and informative as it was for me.
Onto New York, where "The Gate Agent" will be screened at the Film Anthology Archives on Friday, June 28.
_ April 17, 2013
Why I Write
When I was 15 years old, I got an idea to write a book about two high school kids who have a quick fling and end up pregnant. About six months and 90,000 words later, Craving Royalty was finished. I still have about 20 copies of the book in my closet and I recently dusted one off on a whim. It’s not a good book by any means, but as far as 15 year old literature goes, I’d give it a solid B. More importantly, Craving Royalty was the start of that ‘drive’, that feeling that (at least a slice of) my brain was meant to create, whether it be characters, stories, or just ideas. Since then, there were two more books, two short films, a feature screenplay, and my Friars Club adventure (to come in another post). Each one of these pieces of writing has served as a desperately-needed fuel to my otherwise crowded mind. To put it simply, the musings of daily life are full of obstacles that either delay or prohibit creative output. And while I think it was the moment that the laughter started rolling during the Ricky Schroeder roast that prompted me to reevaluate my writing goals, it was seeing my joke in Entertainment Weekly that truly solidified this thought.
Full disclosure: I am thankful for the fact that I have a comfortable job, and even more thankful that the word ‘writer’ is part of my job description, so at least during those 40+ hours a week, I’m able to hone my skills. But man, nothing is more of a drain on your creativity than the typical 9-5 job, and sometimes I find myself coming home from work and thinking there’s no way I can fasten up and write something I’m passionate about. But no matter how strong of a feeling this would be, I couldn’t stop writing. Short film idea? Let me crank out 10 pages. Blog post? Coming right up. The fuel was still there, even if it was intermittent and sporadic. My wife, family and friends are forever supportive, and frankly, I just enjoy it.
So that leads me to the creation of mikesmithwriter.com. What’s the website? Well, for one, it’s not finished. I still have many ideas on how to enhance it, and there’s not a clear focus yet. But that’s ok. For now, I don’t mind my first true website to be a repository of my work and ideas. Maybe I’ll regularly blog. Maybe I’ll give updates to my projects. Who’s to say? But I just know that my writing can’t be limited to Monday-Friday during business hours. There are too many ideas I have, too many extremely talented individuals out there to work with (see ‘Friends’ tab) for me to come home and spend my time watching cable news and sitcom reruns. The Gate Agent has been submitted to its first festival, we’re in pre-production talks for another short film, and Amadeo and I are actually having early discussions about a standup comedy routine. The world moves pretty quickly and I know that one day I’m not going to have this same drive to write as much as I do now. And when I’m older and my wrists are aching with carpal-tunnel and arthritis, I want to look back and say that every idea of mine – no matter how commercially viable or unique – ended up being considered if not actually developed.
So I encourage you to take a look at my writing cove, and keep a look out for more updates. But more importantly, whether you write, draw, paint, perform, compose, I have just three words of advice: visualize, develop, execute. So what are you waiting for? Go and get started.
Mike
Why I Write
When I was 15 years old, I got an idea to write a book about two high school kids who have a quick fling and end up pregnant. About six months and 90,000 words later, Craving Royalty was finished. I still have about 20 copies of the book in my closet and I recently dusted one off on a whim. It’s not a good book by any means, but as far as 15 year old literature goes, I’d give it a solid B. More importantly, Craving Royalty was the start of that ‘drive’, that feeling that (at least a slice of) my brain was meant to create, whether it be characters, stories, or just ideas. Since then, there were two more books, two short films, a feature screenplay, and my Friars Club adventure (to come in another post). Each one of these pieces of writing has served as a desperately-needed fuel to my otherwise crowded mind. To put it simply, the musings of daily life are full of obstacles that either delay or prohibit creative output. And while I think it was the moment that the laughter started rolling during the Ricky Schroeder roast that prompted me to reevaluate my writing goals, it was seeing my joke in Entertainment Weekly that truly solidified this thought.
Full disclosure: I am thankful for the fact that I have a comfortable job, and even more thankful that the word ‘writer’ is part of my job description, so at least during those 40+ hours a week, I’m able to hone my skills. But man, nothing is more of a drain on your creativity than the typical 9-5 job, and sometimes I find myself coming home from work and thinking there’s no way I can fasten up and write something I’m passionate about. But no matter how strong of a feeling this would be, I couldn’t stop writing. Short film idea? Let me crank out 10 pages. Blog post? Coming right up. The fuel was still there, even if it was intermittent and sporadic. My wife, family and friends are forever supportive, and frankly, I just enjoy it.
So that leads me to the creation of mikesmithwriter.com. What’s the website? Well, for one, it’s not finished. I still have many ideas on how to enhance it, and there’s not a clear focus yet. But that’s ok. For now, I don’t mind my first true website to be a repository of my work and ideas. Maybe I’ll regularly blog. Maybe I’ll give updates to my projects. Who’s to say? But I just know that my writing can’t be limited to Monday-Friday during business hours. There are too many ideas I have, too many extremely talented individuals out there to work with (see ‘Friends’ tab) for me to come home and spend my time watching cable news and sitcom reruns. The Gate Agent has been submitted to its first festival, we’re in pre-production talks for another short film, and Amadeo and I are actually having early discussions about a standup comedy routine. The world moves pretty quickly and I know that one day I’m not going to have this same drive to write as much as I do now. And when I’m older and my wrists are aching with carpal-tunnel and arthritis, I want to look back and say that every idea of mine – no matter how commercially viable or unique – ended up being considered if not actually developed.
So I encourage you to take a look at my writing cove, and keep a look out for more updates. But more importantly, whether you write, draw, paint, perform, compose, I have just three words of advice: visualize, develop, execute. So what are you waiting for? Go and get started.
Mike