Under Cover of Invisibility

I'm still working toward completion of the first draft of my novel. In the meantime, however, I have finished the first draft of the cover of my novel. I hope this will help motivate me to write faster, either since more of you will start badgering me to do so, or because I won't want to wait any longer to have a copy of this in my hand:

I like to think it captures my novel's marriage of action, drama, and humor quite well... perhaps better than the novel itself. Of course, I like to think a lot of things. Over-thinking is one reason I've changed the working title more than a half-dozen times so far.¹

More importantly, what do you think?


¹ Yes, inquiring readers, the story still contains unseen simians, despite the fact I've strayed from the original title of And Then Came the Invisible Monkeys. At least, for now...

I'm Good Enough, I'm Smart Enough, and Doggone It, That's Not Entirely Accurate

There are a handful of improv groups in central CT. Last week, I auditioned with one for which I felt I might be a good fit. After a couple minor hiccups early on, I thought I did quite well, certainly well enough to guarantee a callback.

I was wrong.

This is becoming somewhat of a theme for me. Apparently, I came across as nervous, undecided, and occasionally frustrated, although I was none of these things.¹ Clearly, there's some disconnect between what I think I'm doing and what I'm actually doing.

I was under the impression I'd gotten pretty good at improv — at least on par with my fellow improvisers who keep getting snatched up for spots in established groups — but if I've learned anything over the past few months, it's this:

I'm not good at improv.

That's not to say I'm bad at it. I've been in some great scenes, and gotten plenty of laughs. But whereas a few days ago I'd have said I was pretty good, this latest setback (in a series of many) has finally made the truth sink in: I'm mediocre at best. It's become abundantly clear I'm not fit for any improv troupe.²

It's okay, though; I've already come to terms with this. In fact, I think it might be for the best. In their rejection, the group said I showed potential and should keep at it. And I will, since I enjoy it. But this rejection may be just the impetus I need to shift most of my focus back to something I know I'm good at: writing.

Then again, if I was so far off regarding my improv abilities, I might be deluding myself about my writing, too. After all, I've really only shared my fiction with friends and family, and it's not like they're going to say it sucks.³ The novel I'm writing might be utter tripe. I have no idea.

And that got me thinking. I soon realized I'm probably not as good as I think I am at a slew of things. In fact, I've put together a list:

• Improv
• Novel-writing
• Web design (yep — my day job)
• Volleyball
• Imitating accents, eh?
• Hostage negotiation
• Self doubt
• Making lists

Luckily, there are still a few things at which I'm exactly as good as I think I am:

• Being a dad
• Husbandry Being a husband
• Scrabble
• Photoshoppery
• Juggling knives
• Humorous footnotes⁴

Of course, I won't know if I'm actually bad at novel-writing until people read my novel. And I won't actually let people read my novel until I've finished the thing. So, I'd better stop lolly-gagging around here and get back to the word mines.⁵

Wish me luck!


¹ Except for one brief bout of indecision during the first warm-up exercise, when my brain wasn't yet firing on all cylinders. (Actually, my brain never fires on all cylinders; I always leave one cylinder alive to spread the word of Nate, the Geometrical Killer.)
² Well, unless they're Damn Fools.
³ Sure, a few in the local writing group gave negative feedback, but I'd already learned not to trust their opinions.
⁴ As opposed to humerus footnotes, which I'm no longer allowed to do, ever since they discovered my medical credentials were courtesy of Milton Bradley.
⁵ Stepping on one of these causes a literal explosion.

The Pleas of the Costumeless

When kids come to my door on Halloween, their eyes wide and hands shaking in search of their next sugar fix, I require only two things:

1. They must say "Trick or treat!" ¹
2. If they're not wearing a costume, they must tell me what they're supposed to be.

After all, being lazy is one thing. But lazy and uncreative I can't abide. And I'm strict when it comes to giving out the goods;² no sweets in the bag until both conditions are met.

With 130+ trick-or-treaters, we saw our share of the unadorned among the shambling hordes. Of course, some of these were also lazy in their creativity. They claimed to be:

• an athlete
• a basketball player
• a hobo
• a rapper
• I don't know

Others, however, managed to make me chuckle:

• a flyboy (complete with an appropriate flyboy pose)
• a citizen
• a realistic person who goes to school³
• just a kid looking for candy

Next year, I think I might institute a tiered system for my candy dispersal. Costumed children will get the best (or the most) candy. Uncostumed but inventive kids receive the lesser brands (or amounts). Those lazy in both action and mind get the stale leftovers from this year.

Alright, kids, you've got a year to come up with your stories. Wow me. Otherwise, you're stuck with year-old Bazooka Joe.


¹ I'll waive this rule if they open with a more amusing alternative. For instance, the girl who groaned "BRAAAAAAINS!" and the group singing adapted Christmas carols ("Good tidings we bring, for sugary things...") got a pass. And some oh so delicious candy.
² And the plentys.
³ This was the same kid who first said "I don't know." He then took ten seconds to come up with his answer. I restrained myself from humming the Jeopardy theme.

And He Said Unto Them, "BAWWWWWW!"

Happy Halloween, everyone!

I'm a Damn Fool

I haven't blogged in a while. You may think it's because I've been lazy, but actually, I've just been severely overworked biding my time.

Forty days have passed since my last post. It's like I gave up blogging for Lent, except it being the wrong time of year, and the fact that I'm a lousy, stinkin' Jew.¹

So, what have I been doing all this time? I'm glad I asked.

As previously mentioned, I've spent plenty of time working biding. And of course, now that The Professor is walking (and dancing (and toddle-running (and attempting to leap off of furniture))),² it's difficult to pull myself away. But when I have gotten away, what I've been doing is improv.

I've taken a couple of classes so far, and after the last one, a few of us decided to meet up weekly to keep at it. Although I have my blog and novel, I love having this creative outlet where I get to work with others. I always leave our improv sessions energized. Anyway, two weeks ago, we settled on a name for our fledgling group: The Damn Fools.

Sure, a couple days later two of our four members officially joined an established improv troupe as well. They hope to stick with both groups, though some might say they're damn fools for trying.

But hey, that's who we are. And I wouldn't have it any other way.


¹ I am a lousy Jew: I eat pork, don't believe in God, get the holidays confused, and — unless you count bar mitzvahs — haven't been inside a synagogue since I was 8. (Whereas, I stink because I haven't showered in two days.)
² I'll write a Professor-centric post once I get the chance to comb through the most recent pictures. (Not literally; there won't be a comb. I'll sift through them instead. (Not literally; there won't be a sieve. I'll scour through them. (Not literally.)))

The Inciting Incident

Three years and seven days ago, I brought forth in this content a new notion, conceived liberally, and dedicated to the proposition that, ah, man! I get a sequel!

For you see, on August 20, 2009, I slipped off a mossy precipice and hurtled nearly 30 ft into a narrow chasm as images of my death flashed before me. And then I wet myself.

Although I had yet to finish my novel (a familiar story),¹ I finally had a tale to tell. And I needed a place to tell it. Thus, one week later (three years ago today) I started this blog.

And the rest, as they say,² is history.³

I know I've been slacking in my bloggerly duties these past couple months, but as summer wanes and cool autumn breezes carry inspiration my way, I can promise you that's not going to change one bit. My son's just too dang cute.⁴ Plus, if I don't finish my novel sometime soon, I suspect Joseph Selby may shift from positive motivation to all-out threats.

Okay, fine, I'll try to slack less. After all, I love to entertain.⁵

But three years. Wow. Time sure flies when you're doing a bunch of stuff.


¹ Not familiar: the novel, with its assassination plot involving invisible monkeys. (Unless that's a thing. If that's a thing, let me know post haste.) Familiar: to this day, the book remains unfinished. I'm nothing if not consistent.
² Who is they and why are they always saying such things? You'd think by now they'd have learned to listen once in a while so they didn't repeat themselves so damn often.
³ Then again, everything that's ever happened in all of creation is history, technically speaking, so that phrase is as worthless as this simile.
⁴ He learned to walk this past Tuesday, and he does this adorable thing where he slips into the other room without the noticeable pit-pat-pit-pat he had when he crawled, and goes straight for the cat food.
⁵ The only chance I've had to entertain over the past few weeks was that time I was up on stage and valiantly saved that poor bat from the malevolent horde of shrieking 6-year-old girls. True story.

Will the Real Dada Please Stand Up?

For the past couple months, I've been telling people my son has mastered three words/phrases: "mama," "dada," and "uh oh". Only recently did I learn that when he says "dada" he's not referring to me.

I'll pause a moment and let you ponder the repercussions of that statement.

And then I'll ruin it by saying you're not pondering what I'm pondering.

Unless you were thinking his "dada" is a book.

That's right. A book. You see, when The Professor was born, we signed up to get a book each month from a Jewish organization called The PJ Library, because I thought my son should know more about our heritage than I do hey, free books!

The one we received before Passover this year was Dayenu, basically an illustrated (and Anglicized) version of the traditional Passover song of the same name. Of course, being such a devout Jew, I didn't remember hearing of it before. My mom, however, sang it to him when she babysat. And my son loooves music, so Denise and I learned the tune (via the Tube of You) and followed suit.

So, how does this book supplant me as "dada"? You might have already figured it out, but just in case, here's the chorus, which is repeated eight times throughout the book:

Da-dayenu,
Da-dayenu,
Da-dayenu,
Dayenu, dayenu!

It quickly became one of his favorites (only equaled by pop-up books), and was often the first one he pulled out of his box o' books to hand to us.

Yet I was slow (and/or willfully deluding myself); I didn't catch on for a while. Two weeks ago is when it clicked for me. I now realize when he's crawling toward me in the living room, smiling, reaching out to me and saying "dada," he's not calling for me.

He's calling for me... to sing.<sup>1


1</sup> In a related story, The Professor also started saying "nana" this past week. He's not looking for his grandmother, though. He's looking for his grandmother to bring him a delicious yellow fruit.