Quiet

Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

I know I've been quiet lately. I suspect that's not going to change any time soon.

Want to know what I listen to when I feel quiet? I found a short excerpt of one of my favorites.

Old & Lost Rivers, by Tobias Picker

I'm listening to it now. It's funny how the loudest noises in the head can be drowned out by something as quiet and ethereal as this.

I hope everyone's having a nice Valentine's Day.

The Twitchy Time

Why I am a writer, not an artist.
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

I drew a bee, upon Schuyler's instructions. I believe that it is a very fine bee, and I don't particularly feel like putting my own face in front of a camera any time soon, so here you go. My mad skillz on display.

It is the twitchy time for me right now, which everyone told me would happen in the interim between turning in my manuscript and getting it back for edits and rewrites. I've also been told to enjoy the feeling that my book is actually, you know, mine, because soon I'll be fighting to hold onto some tiny measure of control over everything from the final content to the cover art to how it's described in the catalogue. I'm not too worried, if only because 1) I've heard good things about St. Martin's Press and how they treat their authors, and 2) there's not much I can do about it now anyway. Everything will happen in its own time and its own way.

Which is to say that yes, I am a big box of worry.

I may have some trips coming up to distract me from my empty mailbox. It looks like I am probably going to be going to Los Angeles next month for a few days, not for anything book-related but to do some photography work (and general entourage duty) for a friend who's got a big event going on, complete with real live celebrities, by golly. I'm looking forward to it; I've never been to California before, and it'll be a nice change, from self-promoting author to friend-promoting paparazzi. I am going to spend the next three weeks engaged in a strict regimen of deyokelization.

I may also be going to Austin this weekend to hang with some old friends from my former life at the bookstore, too. Nothing fancy about that one, though. Just a wacky themed party ("junior high talent show!") and an opportunity to be either embarrassing or amusing.

Or both, really. I have some ideas.

So yeah. Twitchy. Twitch twitch twitch twitch.

As good as a paternity test, revisited

Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

(At lunch, Dallas Museum of Art cafe)

Julie: (Splitting a pepperoni and mushroom pizza with Schuyler) Go on, try the mushroom, Schuyler. It's good.

Me: Bleagh.

Julie: Don't listen to your father. Mushrooms are tasty.

Me: Don't do it, Schuyler. They taste like feet!

(Schuyler eats the mushroom.)

Me: See? It tastes like feet, doesn't it?

Schuyler: Nooooo...

Julie: Ha!

(Schuyler laughs, then leans over in her chair and points to her ass.)

Sad day in Texas

Well, crap.

Molly Ivins has died, after a long battle with breast cancer.

Following as it does the death of Ann Richards, Molly's passing further thins the already shaky list of worth-a-shit Texans. When I think of her, I think of one of my favorite sayings. "Comfort the disturbed. Disturb the comfortable." It'll be harder work without her in the world.

Oh, who are the people in your neighborhood?

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Not in my Language

I don't have anything in particular to say about this, other than it makes me think a great deal about what goes on inside the minds of broken people. Not just the autistic or cognitively impaired but also (and I suppose inevitably) ones like Schuyler who exist in two worlds, the one in which we all live and which they find crude ways to send the rest of us little telegrams (using things like sign language or the Big Box of Words), and their own world of monsters, where they scream and laugh and deliver their own internal oratory that no one will ever hear.



"The first part is in my "native language," and then the second part provides a translation, or at least an explanation. This is not a look-at-the-autie gawking freakshow as much as it is a statement about what gets considered thought, intelligence, personhood, language, and communication, and what does not."

Zoboomafoo and Steve Irwin are corrupting the children of America

Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

This time, Schuyler tries her hand at fiction. I say fiction because really, outside of a pet store, Schuyler has never seen a snake. We don't exactly spend a lot of time in the woods, communing with nature. There is neither cable tv nor air conditioning in the forest, after all. Isn't that why we stopped living there and built actual cities in the first place?

Anyway, here's another little essay from Schuyler, written on her device at school.

---

I see snake in the forest. I feel scared. Snake is hissing. Baby snake is green. Snake is in tree.

Schuyler

---

I'm not sure why I keep sharing these with you since they're certainly not any different from what any other kid would write at school.

Well, I guess that's why, come to think of it.

The Pleasurable Irritation of the New

Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

A funny thing happened when I got to the end of my book. I wanted to keep writing.

During the last few weeks of 2006, with a deadline looming, my writing schedule wasn't pretty. It's no secret that I'm not the most disciplined writer. If Schuyler comes in the room and wants to play, I'm not sure she's ever heard me say. "Sorry, Daddy's writing." If she has a puppy in her hands, forget it. Oh, come on, now. Puppies?

As a result, I actually did most of my writing, particularly during November and December, after about 9pm. I almost never went to bed before 2 or 3am, and now that I'm done, I can't seem to shake the habit. I am an indescribable delight in the morning, no doubt.

It's a weird time for me and the book right now. I mailed off the manuscript to St. Martin's and my agent a week and a half ago, and I haven't heard anything since. If not for the UPS tracking website, I wouldn't even know for sure that they arrived at all. And the thing is, this isn't a bad thing. If my agent or my publisher were idle enough that they were calling me every time they got something in the mail, I suppose I'd be worried about how busy they weren't. St. Martin's Press publishes something like 700 titles a year. They signed me to write a book, and I did it. When they need something else, they'll let me know.

So the manuscript is in the hands of my editor now, and there's nothing for me to do until she gets back to me to let me know what needs to be changed or exactly how big of an error St. Martin's has made. I'm in this funny sort of period of self-doubt, made even worse the other day by a few hours spent at Barnes & Noble, looking at the other titles put out by my publisher and my editor in particular. Good lord, some of the people she's worked with in the past know their stuff. They are doctors and specialists. I'm a former music major. I like puppies.

The next phase for me is working on a marketing plan, which I'm already assembling pretty aggressively. I recently (and unexpectedly) made a local media contact that is yielding some very interesting things, and there's another mediabistro event coming up in Dallas wherefore to make with the schmoozing. It's all still pretty new to me. We'll see how I do.

All in all, things are looking good. "I eat the air, promise-crammed," as Hamlet said so very artsy-fartsily.

But still, I'm itching to write. Furthermore, I've already screwed up my sleep patterns for the foreseeable future, and my agent approved of my idea for my next book. (Well, one of my ideas, anyway; I have a few but only one ties in with SCHUYLER'S MONSTER in any real way, and for my second book, she thought I should stay close to home, so to speak.) So as crazy as it feels to me after just finishing the one book, I've begun working on the next.

Put simply, I'm writing a book about fathers. It'll be about the father I had and the father I am, and also about other fathers, good ones and bad ones and famous ones and the ones who go unsung or unmourned in their simple private lives. At my agent's suggestion (and one that I agree with), I'm not writing it in the form of essays or interviews; apparently I am to become a memoirist, and how pretentious does THAT sound? If you've ever read Sarah Vowell or Bill Bryson and seen how they weave their own narrative into their historical or travel writing, you'll have an idea of what I'm doing.

There are a few fairly well-known stories I'm planning to cover, like Paul and Gage Wayment and Joseph and Rolf Mengele (such cheerful dad stories!), but I'm very interested in suggestions from you about stories of fathers and their children that you think should be told. I'm interested in anything, although it would be especially nice to hear about fathers who aren't necessarily famous (and who aren't murderous Nazis or have ever accidentally killed their children, since I seem to have those covered). Drop me an email if you've got a suggestion or a good story to tell.

Look at me! Not only am I subjecting you to writing about writing, which is always fascinating, but I'm also letting you research my next book for me, too. My car's kind of dirty if anyone feels like coming over to wash it. Just saying.

Of mermaids and aphasia

Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

Schuyler loves mermaids. If you ask her, she'll tell you that she's a mermaid.

We were at Target today, buying much-needed clothes for her, and as we wandered the store, we ended up in the movies section. When she found the dvd of The Little Mermaid, we realized that Schuyler never actually seen it. She'd seen the crappy tv series version, but never the movie itself. We got it for her, because we're swell.

I don't remember when I saw the movie originally; when it came out in 1989, I was in college and, to be completely frank, I was mostly drunk. I doubt very seriously that I was seeing a great many Disney films. Still, it's definitely been a few years since I'd seen The Little Mermaid, long enough that I'd forgotten the deal that Ariel makes with Ursula, the giant, squid-legged, fat villainous drag queen, in exchange for giving her some legs.

Schuyler was already captivated by all the mermaids. But when Ariel had her voice taken away, something occurred to Schuyler, something that in all these years she's never actually come out and addressed with us on her own initiative.

For the first time in her life, Schuyler told us that she can't talk.

She pointed to the television and then pointed into her open mouth while shaking her head. She then pointed to herself and did the same thing. "I don't talk," she said over and over again in her strange, no-consonant language that we can usually understand but which is pretty much Martian to the rest of the world.

She then watched the rest of the movie with deep interest. When Ariel got her voice back, Schuyler turned and looked at us with an unreadable expression, as if waiting for an explanation. I couldn't tell if she was sad or just calling bullshit.

After the movie was over, Schuyler clearly wanted to discuss the issue further. She continued to tell us with her gestures that, like Ariel, she also had no voice. When Julie pointed out to her that she had her device to speak for her, Schuyler very carefully searched for just the right words, typing out "no mouth" at first, but frowning and deleting her unsatisfactory choice. I don't think she knew exactly what she wanted to say, only that she saw something that resonated with her own life, and wanted us to understand.

I felt (and still feel, actually) a heavy sadness about the evening, the same way I do every time Schuyler faces a harsh reality. Still, I can't help but think that something really important and positive happened tonight, even if it was accidental.

That's usually how Schuyler's big moments happen. They sneak up on us, and leave us pondering them long after Schuyler has grabbed the evening's carefully chosen dolls and climbed the ladder to her bed.

I can only imagine what she dreams about. Perhaps she speaks in her dreams, as she does in mine.

Autobiography

Schuyler (b&w)
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

This was sent home by Schuyler's teacher, exactly as it was printed off from the BBoW. Apparently the impulse toward memoir is genetic.

---

I am a girl. I am 7. I have no brothers. I have no sisters. My birthday is December 21st. I like to dance and play with puppys. I love puppy.

Schuyler

---

I wonder if they were specifically asked about siblings. If not, that part's a little poignant.

It’s in the hands of Fate and UPS now

I was starting to get a little twitchy, editing and re-editing, adding little bits and generally obsessing over the manuscript. When I finished the manuscript last week, it stood at about 85,000 words; since then, it grew by another 2,000.

I finally decided today that enough was enough. As of about 8:30 tonight, three copies were on their way to New York; two for St. Martin’s and one for my agent. They should get them in about a week.

I feel like I just sent a kid off to college. What do I do now? I guess I’ll start another book, what do you think? Here goes nothing...

Eighty-four

Schuyler
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

We had our monthly AAC Parents Meeting last night at Schuyler's school. It's always an interesting and humbling experience, spending time with other box class parents. It serves as a reminder that most of them (well, all of them, actually, if I'm not mistaken) have tenacious and smart kids who, in their own individual ways, are nevertheless either slightly or significantly worse off than our daughter. Schuyler is the luckiest of unlucky kids.

Before the meeting began, the two members of Schuyler's Assistive Technology team who have been working with her from the beginning pulled us aside and said they think Schuyler is ready to move up to the next level on her device. "She's reached the point where she needs more words," they said.

Her device is currently set to display 45 keys at a time. (I forget how many it showed when she first started using it, but she was moved up to 45 shortly after she started school in Plano.) This new setting will bring it up to 84 keys, which is the Big Box of Words' maximum setting. Schuyler will be using the same setting as adults who use the same device.

Well, I can't begin to tell you how happy we are, happy and proud and most of all vindicated. Last month, I was writing in the book about her frustrating days in her little Austin-area school two years ago, so the whole experience is still newly fresh in my mind. That old school district insisted Schuyler would be unlikely to be capable of using this advanced device. Although they obviously never said so, we always suspected the reason they kept lowballing her had as much to do with budget constraints as anything else.

Rather than admit that or deal with the funding issue head-on, they claimed Schuyler was incapable of using the BBoW at all. ("Not educationally necessary" was the phrase I remember most vividly.) Not even two years later, she's moving up to the most advanced setting. It's worth saying again, and if you're a parent out there with misgivings about what your kid's teachers are telling you, I hope you're listening.

They were wrong, and we were right.

And if we'd stopped fighting that fight, Schuyler would be sitting in a cramped little special ed class in Bugfuck, Texas, trying to teach sign language to her teachers who didn't know it and using little pictures on laminated cards to express the most remedial concepts. She wouldn't be educated so much as taken care of, and when she reached the age of seventeen, she would leave them, not as a high school graduate but rather as Not Their Problem.

Instead, she's in first grade with the other seven year-olds, doing the same work and taking the same tests and obsessing over the same Hello Kitty merchandise as all the other seven year-olds.

Her AT team set up the BBoW so that a button in the upper left hand corner would allow her to easily transition back and forth between the 45 count and 84 count setups. It's an all new language, the 84, and it's going to take some time for her to learn it. But Schuyler being who she is, spent the evening on the 84 side, exploring and trying stuff out, only grudgingly going back to 45 when she needed to say something. She's fascinated by the advanced mode. She's going to do what she did with the 45 and with the device itself when she first got her hands on it. She's going to figure it out and make it hers.

Underestimating Schuyler will bite you on the ass, every single time. She doesn't like being told what to do, and she doesn't like being treated like she's less. It's becoming clear that she might just be the smartest one of us all.

Daniel's Monster

Sometimes it's easy to feel like Schuyler is the only kid in the world with her particular monster. Statistically, that's almost true, really. It's rare, so rare that without the internet, the chances are excellent that we would never hear about another kid in the world with Bilateral Perisylvian Polymicrogyria.

We would have never read about Daniel John-Maxwell Spranger.

Daniel suffers from Schuyler's monster, but his monster seems bigger, and meaner. At the age of 17 months, Daniel can't walk or talk, his hands don't work properly and he can't eat unassisted. I like to think that Daniel is young enough that it's impossible to say "never" about any of those things; when Schuyler was his age, we were just figuring out that something was wrong. In Daniel's case, however, his parents found out earlier because his symptoms are more severe than Schuyler's.

Daniel also suffers from Infantile Spasms, or West Syndrome. It's a severe form of epilepsy that can result in literally hundreds of seizures every day and can cause chronic epilepsy, mental retardation and a variety of other developmental issues. Daniel's brain is about 80% affected by his monster. Think about that for a moment. Think about how hard that little guy has to work to do what he does. THAT'S a fighter.

I bring all this up because Daniel's family is fighting their monster, and if Schuyler's monster is a T-Rex, Daniel's monster is Godzilla. One reason I wrote my book was to help others in a similar situation, and so I'd be remiss if I didn't do so right here as well.

Daniel's family could use some help, just like we needed help and just like you helped us. On their site, you'll find a page called Donations for Daniel. They are raising money for medical expenses, therapy, medical equipment (including wheelchairs and walkers), meds, hospital bills, and even an AAC speech device, this time from a company called DynaVox that makes a line of devices similar to Schuyler's Big Box of Words.

Almost two years ago, you people changed a little girl's life and brought her hope, and that hope continues to bloom every day. Schuyler was a true internet success story. I hope you'll do what you can to make lightning strike twice on the same monster.

Thanks for indulging me.

Sometimes

Sometimes she makes me happier than I have words for.

Sometimes she makes me sadder than I think I can survive.

Sometimes I think I'm exactly the father she needs.

And sometimes, when she's trying so hard to say something that I simply can't understand and for which her device is inadequate, and when she seems frustrated and a little sad and more than a little lonely in a world of concerned grownups and little kids who are passing her by because she can't answer their questions on the playground, sometimes I feel the weight of this on me, and no amount of personal success or happy happy hopeful thoughts can change that.

Sometimes I see happiness in her eyes. I see wonder sometimes, too. And sometimes I see something else, something sadder and more distant. I recognize that look because I know it from the inside out, too.

Silent partner

Julie
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

It's strange, not having the book to obsess about every night. I mean, don't get me wrong, there's still plenty of work to do. I had the whole thing printed off earlier in the week (I expected to see them feed a tree directly into the printer; 85,000 words eats a lot of paper, apparently) and Julie and I have been reading over it, fixing the typos and bad bad bad bad writing moments (good lord, I had some lazy passages hiding in there). But the pace is different now. The mad dash to the end is over. Now I turn around and look behind me to see what sort of mess I've left behind.

Julie's also reading with an eye towards determining what I've forgotten to mention and, according to her recollection, what I may have gotten wrong. I don't write much about Julie here for the same reason I've mentioned before. She's read some of the things that have been written about me and about Schuyler out there, and she wants no part of it.

Writing the book is trickier, though. She's obviously an equal partner in raising Schuyler and thus as important an element in the book as myself. And yet, how can I write her story? It's not mine to write, and I don't imagine she'd want me speaking for her any more than I'd want anyone else to speak for me. She's got her own story to tell about raising Schuyler. Maybe one day she'll tell it.

Thanks to everyone who sent their congratulations, either in email or the comments for the last entry. There's now a mailing list you can sign up for, specifically for information on things like publication news, promotional events, appearances and book signings. Obviously, it's a little early in the process, so don't expect a hotbed of activity at this point. (Thanks go out to Tracy for all her help in getting the marketing side of this going. I told her that every time I need help with something like this, she seems to magically appear, like some kind of Smart Fairy.)

This list is just for fancy pants book business, by the way. For the usual tomfoolery and smartassitude, you'll have to keep coming here.

A Monster Completed

(Originally posted at SCHUYLER'S MONSTER.)

I finished the manuscript this week, only two days after my own personal deadline and a full month before it's actually due to St. Martin's Press. I think that's pretty impressive on its own merits, but for a historically uninspired foot-dragging slacker like myself, it's nothing short of miraculous.

I'm cleaning it up now and having Julie read through it, partially to help edit but mostly to give me her perspective on how true it feels and whether or not I've left out anything she'd consider important to Schuyler's story. I'm writing this book about my experience; I wouldn't try to tell Julie's story any more than I'd want someone trying to tell mine. But she's the only person who's lived through this whole thing with me, aside from Schuyler, whose literary aspirations are still in the developmental stage.

This is not to say that Schuyler’s not stretching her wordsmith wings. As noted on one of the pages at Prentke-Romich (makers of the Big Box of Words), Schuyler occasionally uses her device to pen such poignant missives as her earliest attempts at both memoir ("When I was little I cry. Now I can swim.") and naturalism ("Rabbit eat carrot. Rabbit eat flower. It can jump. It can hide and run.")

I printed it off to make editing easier, and I was a little daunted at how big it was. 85,000 words doesn't feel like a lot when, you know, you're writing them one at a time. I expect to have this part finished by next week, and then it's off to my editor at SMP, where she will begin the process of deconstructing it and turning it into something akin to an actual book suitable for publication.

I am both thrilled and terrified at the thought of someone actually reading this thing at last. That seems to be a recurring theme in this process.

I have no idea what happens from this point on, although I've been warned that it's not always pretty. (One writer friend ended his congratulatory email the other day with "Enjoy this moment -- now the disillusionment begins...") But no matter what happens now, do you know what I did? I wrote a book, start to finish. I am now officially swell.

84,885 words

84,885 words
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

I am DONE.

Well, aside from the final edit, which I am hoping will take about a week, maybe two. Then it's off to the publisher, where my editor will read it and decide what parts suck, and then I will de-suckulate it, and then it gets sent back and re-edited and developed by some more smart people, and fact checkers might see if anything smells like James Frey, and then lawyers will read it and tell me that I'll get sued if I call someone "fucknuts", and then I'll have to secure permission for any quoted material I use and also permission to quote Fucknuts in that one chapter, and then I'll try to have a headshot taken that doesn't make me look like Garrison Keillor or Jabba the Hutt, and then designers will come up with some artsy fartsy cover design most likely using one of the seven thousand photographs I've taken of Schuyler, and then galleys will be sent to me for proofreading (maybe I should get someone to help with that part), and there'll be one last request for me to verify information and remove any outright lies, and then I'll be at your local Barnes & Noble, leering at the 18 year-old booksellers and signing my big fancy pants book, by golly.

Anyway. I'm getting drunk now.

Happy New Year

Mother Daughter
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

A funny thing happened over the weekend, the one where I was supposed to finish my book.

I spent it with Julie and Schuyler and my best friend from high school and his family instead. Funny how life steps in and insists on being lived sometimes.

There have been years in the past where at the end I was like, "Oh, fuck THAT." But 2006 was such a crazy mixed bag that I have no idea how to feel, really. I started the year in a crap job at a troubled (and now closed) Monolith store, and I ended it in a very cool job as the public relations guy for a large university's architecture school in which I only occasionally have to pretend I know anything about architecture. (Hint: It's mostly buildings.) I had some relationships sputter to a conclusion and others spark and flicker to life. I began the year with diabetes and ended with a book deal.

I think, in the balance, 2006 turned out pretty well in the end.

Through it all, Schuyler endures and flourishes. Must faster than I am ready to accept, she's growing into a tall, pretty little girl. She gets better and better on the Big Box of Words and is keeping up in her mainstream classes, with neurotypical kids her age. If the first seven years of her life made for an interesting book subject, the next few years look like they might be refreshingly boring to write about. At least until she's a teenager, and then all bets are off. The thought of it makes me want to go finish whatever beer is left in the fridge from last night, assuming we actually left any.

So yeah.

I hope every one of you just kicked off the best year of your life so far. 2007's definitely got a lot of promise going in.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some work to do. See you on the other side.

Crybaby

It's crunch week here at the Fancy Pants Book Boy Blog. I am three chapters away from completion, and while I'm obviously cutting it close in my "finished by the end of the year" goal, I also don't work this week (thanks, academia!) so it might just happen. Depends on whether or not I feel like engaging in the loserly extravagance known as sleep.

Christmas around here was quiet but fun. We're actually planning a sort of Christmas 2.0 for after my book advance check arrives. It's not a particularly large advance, and I'm not going to complain about it because it's a pretty swell problem to have, the whole "when am I going to get paid for the book I haven't actually given my publisher yet but which they're going to publish for me and make all my dweams come twue" thing. Before I got the book deal, if I'd read someone bitching about their advance not being paid fast enough for their selfish soul, I'd be sticking pins in a doll pretty quickly.

Still. You know how it is.

So three chapters to go, and then do you know what I'm going to do, before I edit and send it in? Can you guess?

That's right. I'm getting drunk. Worst case scenario, I'll pick up some booze when I start knocking over liquor stores.

Like any other kid at Christmas

Schuyler & Santa, 2006
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

Schuyler has always had a strong association with Christmas, being born four days before. It's no coincidence that her middle name is Noelle.

I took her to see Santa today.

She prepared for her audience with The Man all morning, practicing what she was going to say over and over. When it was finally her turn, she uncharacteristically hesitated for a moment, and then jumped up in his lap and told him her name, using the Big Box of Words, and what she wanted for Christmas. ("I want earrings and necklace and bracelet and ring." Apparently it's Schuyler's year for bling.) When it came time for the photo, she handed me her device impatiently. It was a scene that at a glance looked very much the same as any other kid visiting Santa.

I could tell it was different for him, though. The other kids were rushed through pretty quickly, but Santa took his time with Schuyler. He asked her questions, which she answered on the BBoW, and he spoke to her, softly so that only she could hear what he said. She listened intently and nodded solemnly every so often, seemingly very aware of the importance of her audience with Santa. Her eyes shone and she watched his face with reverence the whole time. It's often hard to know what exactly is going through her mind, but one thing was very clear today. Schuyler believes.

They took the photo and then Santa gave her a long hug, closing his eyes for just a moment. After Schuyler hopped down, I saw him push up his glasses and quickly wipe his eyes before turning and motioning for the next kid. As we walked away, I saw him turn and look at her, watching her thoughtfully.

Schuyler made Santa believe. I know how he must have felt.

Quality of Life

Schuyler at sunset
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

I was driving home today and listening to NPR, and a story came on about a young woman in Oklahoma named Misty Cargill who suffers from mild intellectual disability and abnormally small kidneys.

Misty Cargill needs a kidney transplant.

Out of 69,000 Americans on the waiting list for a kidney transplant, only about 16,000 will receive one this year. No one knows who will be next to get a kidney, but Misty knows it won't be her. She knows because she can't get on the list.

Because of her mental disability.

Misty Cargill was rejected from the list, despite the fact that she meets all the criteria for transplant. She's within the correct age and weight range, and aside from the fact that she will need a kidney very soon, she is otherwise in good health. She has Medicaid and is therefore able to pay for the operation and the follow-up anti-rejection medications. A patient must be capable of telling their doctors how they feel and of taking the medications that will prevent organ rejection. Cargill can do so; she's employed and lives in an assisted living community, where she lives mostly independently but with medical supervision.

But even though the state of Oklahoma considers Misty competent to make her own decisions, the Oklahoma University Medical Center transplant center rejected her referral on the grounds that she might not have the mental capacity to give informed consent to have the operation. They even went so far as to claim that her own doctors declared her incompetent to give informed consent, a claim denied by her personal physician and her kidney doctor, who say that she is a good candidate for transplant and could die without it.

In the story, an expert on developmental disabilities at Ohio State, Steven Reiss, said exactly what I was thinking: doctors appear to be making decisions based not on medical concerns, but a discriminatory "quality of life" judgment.

"There's thinking out there that some people's lives are more valuable than others," he said. "It's very hard to keep that thinking totally out of the transplant process."

One of the tests we have not put Schuyler through is a cognitive evaluation, an IQ test. There are plenty of good reasons not to and not really any compelling reasons to do so. She's receiving the services she needs in her school, above and beyond, in fact, so a test showing some sort of diminished cognitive capacity isn't going to help her get more help. More importantly, an IQ test administered on a non-verbal subject is extremely subjective and dependent upon the independent interpretive judgment of the test administrator. When we saw Dr. Dobyns in Chicago, he warned that such a test should only be administered by a qualified pediatric psychiatrist, and even then we should take the test results with a grain of salt.

I have no idea how profoundly Schuyler's cognitive abilities are affected by her monster, although my gut feeling (and those of the medical evaluators who have seen her before) is that her impairment is mild and probably due more to her communications difficulty and developmental delay than to her brain malformation.

Today, it suddenly became clear once again why we were correct not to have such a test administered to Schuyler, and why we likely never will. Today, I heard the story of Misty Cargill, a young woman who goes to a job and has a boyfriend who takes her to the movies and who bowls in a league and who can't get a life-saving procedure because someone somewhere has decided that she's retarded, and retards don't deserve to live as much as the rest of us. Today, I remembered the emails I have gotten, not many but a few, suggesting that Schuyler's class is a drain on the resources of the public schools, and that she and the other members of her box class should be institutionalized (and marginalized), not mainstreamed.

It's a hard, rough, shitty world for broken people. Don't you ever doubt that, not for a goddamned second.

(UPDATE: Misty died in 2012, never having received her transplant.)

That was a quick seven years...

Happy birthday, Monster Girl.

As good as a paternity test

Don't eat that.
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

We were sitting for a delightful dinner at Chipotle last night. Schuyler was busily devouring her quesadillas and had left her device sitting on the table. I slid it over in front of me, pulled up the alphabet page and started typing, and then pushed it back over in front of her and pushed the speech field. It spoke in her voice.

"Schuyler eats boogers."

She laughed and pushed a few quick buttons.

"No."

Then she got busy, putting together a sentence from a variety of areas on the device. When she was finished, she slid the device across the table and hit the speech field, chuckling to herself quietly.

"Daddy eats bugs."

Season of Change

Schuyler and Tiny Lulu
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

And then, things are back the way they were before. Except of course, not at all.

We met with Schuyler's team yesterday, specifically addressing her dysphagia issues. I don't write much about the secondary effects of her Bilateral Perisylvan Polymicrogyria, but the other major issue besides her speech problem involves her swallowing and the muscles in her face. It's the thing that causes her to drool, and it makes for occasional difficulties when she eats.

It doesn't come up often; we watch what she eats pretty carefully, and she never dines alone. A few weeks ago, however, she had a choking incident at school, and since then there's been a lot of talk about a special diet and pureeing all her food (an idea floated last year by an overenthusiastic therapist) and generally lots of scary talk. Schuyler received an independent evaluation from a dysphagia expert, and yesterday we got the report.

It wasn't bad at all. We're making a few adjustments to what Schuyler's going to eat and how it'll be presented to her, but none of the meatloaf milkshakes we were afraid of. The thing I liked the most about the expert was her commitment to a solution that will allow Schuyler to function in a way that won't make her stand out in her peer group. She has a commitment to improving Schuyler's life, not just to help her stay healthy but also to help her grow into a normal little girl trying to find her way in the unforgiving "Lord of the Flies" world of little kids. You couldn't pay me enough to relive those days, and I wasn't even broken at that age.

It's funny, because life has changed so much lately, and it's changing more every day. There's another song by Eels, with the line "I'm tired of the old shit, let the new shit begin." But for Schuyler, it's still the smallest things that amaze her, not the big changes. Old faces disappear from her life as they do from mine, and new ones appear. Schuyler rolls with it far better than I do.

She turns seven tomorrow, an event that she's been excited about for weeks, ever since my birthday started off our family birthday season. It has corresponded to a big event, one that has captivated Schuyler most of all.

A few weeks ago, we found ourselves with puppies (don't ask), and she's been watching them grow with fascination. Even though they're finding homes in a hurry (half-pug and half-Boston Terrier is apparently a popular mix, even if it's really half-housefly and half-Gollum), they've still all come to get names. There's Runtly (obvious reason), Bindi (who had a tiny mark on her forehead, but it seems have to have disappeared, like Madonna's), Brindlefly (nerd joke), Tiny Lulu (again, probably obvious why), and the one who has become attached to me, against my better judgment, Sir Ernest. He's the explorer in the bunch.

They're growing so fast. So is Schuyler, come to think of it. She can't take her eyes off of them, and I can't take mine off of her.

Wearing my fancy pants

ESB
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

(Originally posted on Monster Notes.)

I'm writing this on the plane as I return to Texas and real life, from the surreal week I've had in New York City. When I left Dallas four days ago, the entire process of working on this book was an internal one, consisting mostly of late nights spent over my laptop in my living room. My interactions with my agent had taken place entirely in email and over the phone; with my editor at St. Martin's Press, only by email. Even when I got my contract, the reality of this book and what's going to happen hadn't entirely sunk in.

Now it's real.

The MediaBistro event went very well, I thought. The panel was spirited and I don't think I made too big an ass of myself. What I found most interesting from the discussion was how despite the panel's premise (bloggers who were able to transition their online writing to actual book deals), in reality, almost everyone there was successfully pursuing our publishing careers through largely traditional means. Many of the panelists had either begun their blogs after they began the process of being published or had begun their blogs as a part of that process. My book may have grown out of my online writing (although almost none of it is directly used), but my agent was almost entirely unaware of it when she read my proposal, and St. Martin's Press only became aware of the scope of the blog after they taken me on.

Nevertheless, it was also generally agreed that for a writer to be taken seriously in the current marketplace, some sort of online presence was pretty essential, at least for new authors. Editors look at what a writers has online to see how consistent their work is and how committed they seem to be to their craft. If you get Googled and they find some half-assed blog with like four posts from 2002 about your cat, you might not make the big impression you're hoping for. Unless your book is about cats.

After the event, I was able to meet audience members, some of whom had come to the event specifically and a few others who became interested in my work after reading the program notes and hearing me speak. One couple has a child recently diagnosed with autism, and talking to them about taking charge of the process when they don't trust a diagnosis rather than handing over all their trust to doctors. I reminded them that at two points in Schuyler's life (when she was misdiagnosed as PDD-NOS, and when her school in Austin said she wouldn't be capable of using an AAC device), it was NOT trusting what we were told that made the difference for her.

Just having that one conversation on Monday night made me see all over again why I'm doing this.

Meeting my agent and my editor was extraordinary. Sarah Jane Freymann is elegant and refined, and is one of the warmest people I've ever met in my life. I know that this book wasn't easy to sell; it doesn't fit easily into an established genre, and selling it was going to require that just the right agent put it in front of just the right editor. Sarah Jane understood from the beginning what I was trying to do, even better than I did, and in finding Sheila Curry Oakes at St. Martin's Press, she found the same in an editor. I have no illusions about how much I owe them both for believing in this.

When I stepped out of the subway station at 23rd Street and saw the Flatiron Building for the first time, my first reaction was that of a tourist. And then it hit me.

"Holy crap, I have business in that building."

Through it all, Schuyler waits on the other end. She doesn’t care about publishing, or her fancy pants author father. And yet she remains the only reason for any of this, the only reason it matters.

Box Friends

Martian Ambassador
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

Schuyler's best friend had a birthday party today.

I've mentioned Sara before, in reference to a photo their teacher took of the two of them sitting in class together, ignoring everyone else and giggling together as they engaged in secret girl talk, BBoW style. Sara is Schuyler's little girl crush, and together they are just heartbreakers, both for what they can't do and for what they can. Also, they're both going to be boykillers one day.

When we walked into the McDonald's Playland for the party, Schuyler and Sara squealed in delight when they saw each other and crashed into each other in a high-speed, full-contact hug. They played together the whole time, once again sort of subbing the rest of the girls, most of whom were neurotypical kids from Sara's Brownie troop.

I have to say, there's something endearing to me about the idea of two broken little girls being snobs to the other, non-disabled kids. If you don't talk with a box, you're not cool enough to run with them. Sorry, but that's just how they roll. Go play with your Bratz dolls instead.

The thing that I thought was the most touching was how Schuyler and Sara talk to each other. They weren't using their devices much at all, but rather spoke in their little Martian languages (which sound remarkably similar to each other) and in a sign language that they seem to have developed together out of ASL but have now made totally their own.

Schuyler has neurotypical friends, but those friendships never seem fair. It makes me crazy, watching good-natured Schuyler end up being someone's plaything because she can't easily talk, but it happens every time and I suppose it's inevitable. Two years ago, it would have seemed unthinkable that Schuyler would one day find a friend, let alone several friends, who live in this world but originate in hers. The Box Class has given her a peer group, and even considering all the good things she's gotten out of this program, that may be the one I value the most.

God, I'm going to miss that little girl next week.

As soon as I get back, Schuyler and I are going to Odessa to see my family and watch my best friend from high school perform as soloist with our old high school band. Manhattan to West Texas in a single day? The culture shock may very well kill me.

If my plane crashes, this crappy post will be my legacy to the world.

Hi there.
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

It's the season of birthdays here. Mine was a couple of weeks ago, and yesterday was Julie's. Schuyler's birthday is on the 21st, followed shortly by the Baby Jesus. I'm not telling you what Julie's getting because it's going to be both late and swell, but Schuyler's getting a Hello Kitty digital camera from her father, as a result of her budding interest in photography. I have no idea what Jesus wants. Maybe an iPod.

Tomorrow I leave for New York City, to do the Media Bistro panel, meet my agent and my publisher (at the famously weird Flatiron Building) for the first time, and also to attend an artsy fartsy holiday book party.

The panel itself has generated some strange publicity in the past week. I don't really have much of an opinion about the whole thing. Both sides make some good points and, well, some dumb ones, too. I like the fact, however, that in all the discussions of whose book did better and who's a big player and who isn't, my own name hasn't been mentioned once. I'm the only person involved on this panel who hasn't actually been published yet, so until I open my mouth Monday night, no one knows who I am.

Just this once, there's an online pissing match going on and I'm standing off to the side watching, in happy anonymity. I feel like the fourth Ghostbuster.

The Essential Schuyler

Laughter
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

(Written for Monster Notes.)

With less than a week to go before my media panel in New York City, it occurred to me the other day that I don't actually have a very good idea what I'm going to say. That's fine, really. I'm sure I can wing it for the most part. But the obvious question is one that I'm not sure I have an answer for. Not an answer in words, anyway.

"Why am I writing this book? Why did I write about Schuyler in the first place?"

This book isn't the dreary Tragedy Dad book I was afraid it might be when I started. I mean, obviously parts of it are, but I've managed to strike a balance between shaking my angry fists at God and telling fart stories. But if there's a theme to my book (and God, I sure hope there is), it might be best summed up by the blurb on my agent's page (minus the parts about how swell I am):

Schuyler’s Monster is a beautifully written, poignant, humorous, touching and ultimately uplifting memoir of a special needs child who teaches a man full of self-doubt how to be the father she needs. (St Martin’s Press 2008)

From the very beginning, and not just in my writing but in everything I do for Schuyler, even when I fuck up, I do what I do because her story deserves to be told. I may not be able to do everything for her, or even all that much, but I can be her advocate, and I can tell her story.

One thing I don't want this book to be is the story of her disability. I mean, of course that's what it's about; the book isn't named after Schuyler, it's named for the devil in her head. That's the reality of her life, and perhaps cynically, the reality of selling her story to a publisher and to the world.

But if I do my job correctly, the Schuyler you come to know through my writing will be the one you see above. And as difficult as her life might be, now and particularly as she gets older, I still see that Schuyler most of all on any given day of our lives.

When you can laugh like that, talking seems less important somehow.

The Essential Schuyler

Don't eat that.
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

(Originally posted at SCHUYLER'S MONSTER.)

With less than a week to go before my media panel in New York City, it occurred to me the other day that I don't actually have a very good idea what I'm going to say. That's fine, really. I'm sure I can wing it for the most part. But the obvious question is one that I'm not sure I have an answer for. Not an answer in words, anyway.

"Why am I writing this book? Why did I write about Schuyler in the first place?"

This book isn't the dreary Tragedy Dad book I was afraid it might be when I started. I mean, obviously parts of it are, but I've managed to strike a balance between shaking my angry fists at God and telling fart stories. But if there's a theme to my book (and God, I sure hope there is), it might be best summed up by the blurb on my agent's page (minus the parts about how swell I am):

Schuyler’s Monster is a beautifully written, poignant, humorous, touching and ultimately uplifting memoir of a special needs child who teaches a man full of self-doubt how to be the father she needs. (St Martin’s Press 2008)

From the very beginning, and not just in my writing but in everything I do for Schuyler, even when I fuck up, I do what I do because her story deserves to be told. I may not be able to do everything for her, or even all that much, but I can be her advocate, and I can tell her story.

One thing I don't want this book to be is the story of her disability. I mean, of course that's what it's about; the book isn't named after Schuyler, it's named for the devil in her head. That's the reality of her life, and perhaps cynically, the reality of selling her story to a publisher and to the world.

But if I do my job correctly, the Schuyler you come to know through my writing will be the one you see above. And as difficult as her life might be, now and particularly as she gets older, I still see that Schuyler most of all on any given day of our lives.

When you can laugh like that, talking seems less important somehow.

Comfort the disturbed.

Disturb the comfortable
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

I put a new sticker on my car, replacing all my snotty political dogma with my equally snotty socialist trouble-making dogma. To be honest, I no longer believe that either party is really concerned with the broken of our society. Both are fighting over the middle class and pandering to the super rich. Neither seem to be giving even the most rudimentary lip service to helping the poor or the displaced in this country.

I feel like I'm back in the Reagan 80s, when the President and Edwin Meese claimed that most street people chose their situation and went to soup kitchens because they didn't want to pay for their meals. At the time the Reagan Administration was making these claims, one third of the homeless were estimated to suffer from serious mental illness, another 25-50% had alcohol or drug abuse problems, and most of the rest were jobless or displaced by the gentrification of the inner cities -- the "new poor".

I don't think things have changed much, and I hear the same "get a job" or "giving to the homeless just perpetuates their situation" arguments now, from both predictable and surprising sources. Where does the solution begin? I don't have an answer. Between the sham of faith based initiatives, scandals within groups like the United Way and political indifference to a class of people who, after all, never vote, who is left to make a difference?

I have no idea how to fix the problem. All I know is that while we as communities and as a government are letting the poor and broken of this country fall through the cracks, as individuals we're touched, we feel, and in doing so, we reach out in our big-hearted and inefficient ways and we try to help. Remember the tsunami, or Katrina? Do you remember how feckless the government responses were but how generous the private citizens of this country showed themselves to be?

Imagine for a moment if our elected officials felt those same impulses of humanity and reached out with the full force of the nation to help those among us who don't vote and don't power the engines of commerce. Imagine the things we could do, not just in this country but also in Africa and Asia. Imagine how the people in parts of the world that hate us would feel when their villages began to get electricity and medicine, and American financial institutions began investing in microeconomics, not for their direct gain but in order to shrink the Third World a little. What if we had a New & Improved World Order, the central tenet of which might be "Let's get the whole world's shit together"?

I don't mean to be all John Lennon (or Karl Marx, for that matter) on you tonight. I know that I'm usually concerned with helping one person, one little girl who has a big problem but who also has a lot of people helping her and lifting her up. But the fact is that there are a lot of people out there who have no one, and they have problems that we can barely even comprehend. I've suffered from depression from time to time, and trust me, I know that a lot of you are frankly not always well in the head, bless your nutty little hearts. What if you had no safety margin? What if the next time you stumble, you lose it all?

I'm not sure why I'm writing this. It's cold outside. Maybe that's it. Just think about it, please.

Maybe I'll go help the poor of Plano. Oh, wait. Shit, I think that's us.

"Cue sympathy in 3... 2... 1..."

The crash survivior and the Talent
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

It is possible to hate the media without being a paranoid conservative.

In fact, this reporter, Emily Lopez, is a reporter for the local Fox News affiliate. But she's not any different from any of the other reporters who have been swarming over our apartment complex for the past few days.

Last night, on the hour, the pond would light up and the freshly made-up and coifed Talents would emerge from their heated news vans to deliver fresh intros to the heartwarming story of the woman who drove into a freezing pond and the hero who rescued her. And her little dog, too.

A few things. First of all, this photo is pretty representative of the attitude of this reporter, as well as the others on the scene. It's not a trick of the moment. Most of the bystanders were pretty nice to the poor woman who drove her car into the water, but unless there was a camera pointing in their direction, the Talents were unconcerned.

Their reporting is pretty sloppy, too. In her report, Lopez reports that the driver hit an icy patch and went into the pond. Really? You don't think perhaps she tried to back out of a parking place in front of the pond and was in drive instead of reverse? And perhaps hit the gas instead of the brake when she realized what was going on? Because she didn't go into the pond from the street, she went in from the parking lot, from an angle perpendicular to the driveway.

No, apparently Emily Lopez, crack reporter, got out of the heated news van, put down her Starbucks cup long enough to use her mad journalism skills to determine that the driver was moving through the parking lot (with a speed bump next to the spot where she went in the water) at such a high rate of speed that when she hit this mysterious icy patch, she lost control of her car, did a hard left, hopped a curb, crossed about twenty feet of ground, crashed into a big rock wall and still had enough momentum to make out about fifteen feet out onto the pond.

Because the other possibility? There's no tragic victim and no tie-in to the Big Scary Winter Storm. Just a person who made a mistake and freaked out. Hard to come up with a 3-D graphic for that.

Slow news day, for the local media and for me, too, come to think of it.

No parking.

Trunk
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

So I've mentioned the duckpond right outside my door before, right? It's very nice and serene and peaceful and is in fact one of the nicer things about living here. Julie and I spend a great deal of time out there with Schuyler. Very fancy.

So imagine my surprise today when I stepped outside to see four news helicopters circling overhead and crowds of reporters and onlookers gathering to look into the pond? It's a nice pond and all, and the ducks are swell, but what they were looking at was, well, a Nissan.

Someone had a rough afternoon.

At about 4:14 p.m. Thursday afternoon a woman reportedly lost control of her vehicle and ran into the pond at the Steeplechase Apartments in the 7400 block of Alma in Plano, according to reports from the Plano Fire and Police departments.

The woman frantically dialed 911 as her car slowly sank beneath the frigid water, according to Plano dispatchers. While she was about to be submerged, rescuers dove into the icy pond and got her and her dog out of the car.

Being what kind of gawker, blogger and all-around swell person would I be if I didn't go see for myself?

I can't wait to see how they get it out.

It beats the alternative.

Just don't call me "distinguished".
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

Anyone who has read me for a while knows that I don't generally love having birthdays. And tomorrow's not one that I've exactly looked forward to over the years. Tomorrow I turn thirty-nine.

Well. Yeah. When I just come out and say it like that, it sounds even worse.

This year, however, I find that my feelings about my birthday, usually pretty straightforward ("oh, fuck THIS"), are a little more complicated. While I'm not in love with turning thirty-nine and particularly not thrilled about being a short year away from, you know, thirty-ten, I'm not looking for something sharp or a bus to step in front of, either.

So yeah, I see that as a step up.

If I stop and take stock of my life the day before my birthday, I find that it's not a bad report at all.

I'm developing new relationships and understanding my old ones and have a pretty good sense of the people in my life and what I mean (and sometimes don't mean) to them. At thirty-nine, I am developing a sense of self that has at its core my own understanding of who I am rather than someone else's. I'm not there yet (does anyone ever actually get there?), but I feel closer than I ever have before.

At thirty-nine, I am feeling healthier than I have in a long time, aside from my little kidney misadventure last month. My diabetes is under control, enough so that I've stopped wearing my medic alert tag unless I'm traveling and I don't really think about the Beedies all that much. I take my meds, I eat reasonably intelligently and I spend an hour a day on the treadmill. I'm losing weight, my eyesight has returned to its normal badness, and I can feel my feet again. Everything works the way it's supposed to, and I'm not Jabba the Hutt anymore.

As far as that goes, I don't see it when I look in the mirror, but I've lost enough weight that when I went shopping yesterday for some clothes for New York City, I found that I have gone down ANOTHER size. This puts me at the same size jeans I wore in high school. Let me say that again. High school. And I honestly don't remember the last time I wore a shirts in a large, but I suspect I was still receiving lunch money at the time.

I will turn thirty-nine as something I always wanted to be but never quite was: an author. The word still feels snotty and pretentious, but like your first pair of boots, the more I legitimately wear it, the more comfortable it feels. The day I mailed off my contract, I talked to my agent. She asked me if I planned to write more books, and when I said yes, she was pleased.

"I think you've got more books to write, Robert," she said in her unmistakable accent, that hard-to-nail-down Manhattan cadence, two parts vaguely British Empire and one part old Cary Grant movies. "Your book works because you are a talented writer. When you're in New York, I'd like to talk to you about a few ideas."

In two weeks, I'll be in New York City to talk about making the transition from online writer (okay, fine, blogger) to author, and the next day, I will walk into the Flatiron Building and the offices of St. Martin's Press, and I'll belong there. Thirty-nine is the year that becomes real.

Most of all, however, I turn thirty-nine with the unfamiliar but exhilarating feeling that Schuyler is going to be okay. In Austin, she was treated like a pretty little tragedy, one who would never be capable of using her Big Box of Words and who was expected to be a ward of the public school system until she was old enough to go home and live out her days with her heartbroken and aging parents.

Now Schuyler is actually learning in school, much of her time spent with mainstream students in a regular first grade classroom. She's got teachers and support people who talk about what she'll have to do to graduate high school and go on to college, not as "wouldn't that be grand?" pipe dreams but with the same level of expectation as any neuro-typical student. I turn thirty-nine with a child who is still strange and still broken, but who is also finding her own way and remains the most extraordinary person I have ever known.

So yeah, thirty-nine. I'm not thrilled about the idea, but I'm okay with it.

Not ready to talk about thirty-ten just yet, though. Baby steps.

My pants, they are quite fancy.

AUTHOR:
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

It's been three months of contract negotiations and working out all the tiny details, a lengthy process with any publisher but especially tricky with a large house like St. Martin's Press, with their in-house divisions for things like audio books and overseas editions.

(And merchandising and game rights, oddly enough, although both remain sadly blocked out of my agreement. That's too bad; I was looking forward to my action figure, and Schuyler's Monster for Playstation 3 would have been extreme.)

Today, I am holding the first tangible result of all my agent's hard work.

Friends, I have my contract. Eleven pages.

I'm sure I'll write more about this over at the book blog later tonight, but I just wanted to mention the moment here, with all of you. (Even the assmonkeys.) Many of you have been with me from the very beginning, back before Schuyler was even born, and I know a lot of your hearts broke when she was diagnosed, too. Every time she does something great, I can feel how much pride is out there, among people who will probably never even meet her. When she stumbles, I sense all the invisible hands reaching out to catch her.

Incidentally, there's not much to say about Schuyler at the moment. She's doing well in school, keeping up with all the jabbering mainstream kids in her class and getting excited about the holidays and her birthday. Perhaps it's tempting Fate by saying this (although really, by now it should be pretty clear that Fate can kiss my ass), but Schuyler may have entered a somewhat boring part of her life, at least until she takes a copy of the book to school sometime in the next year or two and uses it to smack some pretty blonde cheerleader in the head.

I'm taking her to The Nutcracker on Friday. There's your Schuyler news. I love classical music but have always been strangely cool towards ballet, so it'll be interesting to see who becomes a twitchy freak first, Schuyler or me.

Things are moving inexorably toward the day when Schuyler's life changes because of this book. It's impossible not to consider that, and we have. It was one of the first conversations Julie and I had about the book. We decided, and still believe, that the concerns (real and imagined) are outweighed by the potential benefits for Schuyler and all the other kids out there with their own particularly monsters, and even more so for other parents who find themselves in their own world of "WTF?" when their lives get turned upside down.

I've mentioned the monkey paw aspects of this book before, but today, I'm going to allow myself to set that aside and enjoy the moment. Just a moment, and then back to the work of finishing the book, and the very real work of being Schuyler's father.

Today I'm going to enjoy looking at that last page of my contract, at the line with my signature on it, beside the word "Author". Today, I don't feel like a fraud when I read that word. And that, my friends, makes this a very, very good day.

Rob Rocks the Peg

(Originally posted at SCHUYLER'S MONSTER.)

An observant blog reader spotted this in the Sunday edition of the Winnipeg Free Press:

Blogger Robert Rummel-Hudson has landed a book deal based on his blog, 'Beloved Monster and Me' (belovedmonsterandme.blogspot.com), a chronicle of life with his daughter, now seven, who has an extremely rare neurological disorder. His memoir, 'Schuyler's Monster', will be published by St. Martin's Press in the Winter of 2008, Publisher's Weekly reports.

It’s not really news or anything, I just thought it was fun that I popped up in Winnipeg, just sort of at random.

I’m a news item, by golly, and not in that “He was always such a quiet neighbor...” sort of way. So much for my high school guidance counselor’s powers of prognostication...

Better

Yes. No.
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

Schuyler and I bought these Chuck Taylors over the weekend. Think of it. Shoes with something to say, worn by a little girl who can't say a word. That's some fated footwear right there.

There's one good thing about depression, a great thing, actually, even if it's a little manic. When it finally lifts, you feel fucking awesome, like nothing can beat you. You may not suddenly have all the answers, but you feel like you do, and that's not nothing.

I'm sure there's a chemical element to the passive of a depressive episode. I'm not sure I care so much. It's the other reasons for improvement that interest me more. There's clarity of thought and good advice of smart friends who listen and care, and improved health, too.

And exercise. I've started hitting the treadmill at my apartment complex's workout room for an hour a day, walking at 3.5 mph. Not exactly tearing it up, but compared to the ass-to-couch regimen I've been following, it's a start.

Mostly, however, it involves reaching the point where you're just not going to be down anymore. That's how it works for me. I never know exactly why I go into a down period, other than identifying the things that trigger it on the surface, and likewise I have no idea exactly what makes my mind arrive at "Oh, fuck this", either.

But I feel better, and stronger, and ready for the next few weeks. I need to finish the book, have a productive and successful New York City trip, and turn thirty-nine without stepping in front of a bus.

I can handle that.

Dreaming

The expression that can move mountains.
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

Like many nights these days, I was up pretty late writing last night, finally going to bed around 2am. I woke up not long after and rolled over to discover Schuyler lying between Julie and me, watching me quietly in the dark with wide eyes. She smiled sadly when she saw me open my eyes, like she was safe at last. I knew then that she'd had a nightmare.

Schuyler's bad dreams mystify me, along with her good ones, too, I suppose. One day she'll be proficient enough on her device to describe them to us, but until then, they are lost to everyone but her. Schuyler's dreams create a world that may sometimes frighten her but is nevertheless entirely her own. That's true in some way for all of us, I guess, but for her, the things that she sees and experiences in her sleep defy explanation. I wish I could share in more of Schuyler's experiences, and her dreams most of all.

Dreams are complicated for me. In general, I am not a very New Age kind of a guy. That's probably not a huge surprise. And yet.

I won't get too moonbaby on you. It's not that I think I can predict the future or anything, because while I've had dreams that might be described as prescient, I also understand that dreams like that are most likely the subconscious working out things that the conscious mind is still trying to figure out. I had a long paragraph about how something I dreamed came true recently in a way that suggested a weird connection with Schuyler, but when I went back and read it, all I could think was "Good lord, what a load."

So I'll spare you the Crossing Over crazy talk and simply say that I have begun to listen more closely to my dreams. I wish I understood them better. And I wish I knew more about Schuyler's. I feel like there are answers there, for her and for me.

I also wish she didn't have to experience hers alone. But then, I wish that about a lot of things that I can't help her with.

Hootenanny

Yo.
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

There's not much new to report about Schuyler other than the completely uninteresting details of the cold that she's enduring (two words to strike fear into your heart: green elevens) and the (probably inappropriate) high black boots she wants me to get for her. (She's currently wearing a camouflage half-jacket and grapey purple hair, so I suspect we all know how this is going to end.)

In the interest of continued shameless self-promotion, let's take a look at the newly-expanded list of speakers for the MediaBistro "Blogger to Author" panel in December:

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-- Jessica Cutler, author of The Washingtonienne: A Novel (Hyperion), a book loosely based on her blog about her raunchy exploits as a congressional staff assistant

-- Maxwell Gillingham-Ryan, author of Apartment Therapy (Bantam), and New York editor and co-founder of Apartment Therapy, the design blog the New York Times called "quietly addicting"

-- Kate Lee, literary agent at ICM, whose client list includes prominent bloggers, reporters, editors, publishers, novelists, and memoirists

-- Laura Mazer, Managing Editor at Seal Press (an imprint of Avalon), which has published numerous titles that began as blogs

-- Robert Rummel-Hudson, author of the forthcoming memoir Schuyler's Monster (St. Martins Press) which began as an online journal about how his life was transformed when his daughter Schuyler was diagnosed with an extremely rare neurological disorder that left her unable to talk

-- Rachel Kramer Bussel, moderator, Senior Editor at Penthouse Variations, writes The Village Voice's Lusty Lady column. She's edited 13 erotic anthologies and her first novel, Everything But..., will be published by Bantam in 2008.

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I think it looks like an awesome mix of writers and publishing professionals, even though I think making a parenting memoir interesting in the context of everything else on the program is going to be, and I think I'm putting this charitably, challenging. I exchanged very nice email with moderator Rachel Kramer Bussel and I think this is going to be a fun and well-run panel. The end-all hootenanny of hootenannies!

I've seen photos of the other participants, and yeah, everyone's all young and good looking and hip. Well, I should say, everyone else. I clearly have some work to do. ("Hey, look at that. I had no idea Ernest Borgnine had a blog!")

If my book advance pays out in time, I do believe I may just do something that I don't believe I have ever done in my life, or at least not since I was taller than four feet high and able to choose my own clothes. I think I might buy a suit. An actual, fancy pants snazzy suit.

You know, I should get a semi-stylish haircut, too. And yeah, I know. The beard. I know.

An Important Message to Democrats, from an Independent voter and swell guy

Dear Democratic Party,

Please don't fuck this up.

Lovingly,
The Rob

Morning

S
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob.

I just walked in from putting Schuyler on the bus. This is almost always the worst part of the day.

About half an hour ago, I woke from a recurring dream, a variation on one that I've had ever since Schuyler's diagnosis in the summer of 2003. It's the dream where she talks to me. I hate the dream, even though I also love it a little. I hate how I feel when I wake up and Schuyler's reality hits me all over again, dissipating the dream like smoke.

This time it was a little different. I was holding a baby girl -- our baby, the second child we were never able to have -- and I was wondering where Schuyler was and how she was doing, in that way that I usually think about her during the day, from the moment I put her on the bus and give her over to the world.

Just then, in my dream, she came up behind me and put her hand on my shoulder, and she said the same thing she always does. "It's going to be okay," she said. And then she asked where her beanbag chair was.

Julie woke me in the middle of the dream so I could put Schuyler on the bus after she left for work. I found Schuyler on the couch, getting her morning Zaboomafoo fix. I asked her how she was doing. She smiled and silently gave me a thumbs up.

It's going to be okay. I still hurt for her, though.