The transition from going on a cool trip to returning to regular life is always a little weird, but this time it felt even more surreal. Two nights ago, I was on a kind of photographic celebrity safari. Tonight, I'm cleaning goop out of my pug's eye.
So yeah. Goodbye, California dreamin'. Hello, eye boogs.
My feelings about California after my first trip are almost entirely positive, I'm happy to say. I met many very cool people, I saw lots of swell sights, and I think I made some promising professional connections.
I spent a day in San Diego with my old friend (and best man at my wedding) Joe, who took me to see a very topical play called The Four of Us. I've been dealing with the unexpected and occasionally shitty way that finding some measure of new success as a writer can affect old friendships, so I was really happy that he found this play and thought of me. Our friendship is solid, largely because for someone who never ever writes a damned thing, Joe's an excellent writer. If that makes any sense.
And San Diego? Almost weirdly beautiful, even with the crazy tall eucalyptus tree in Balboa Park (next to the Museum of Man) that I was convinced was waiting to kill me. Seriously. If you're from San Diego, I'll bet you know the one I'm talking about, in front of the Old Globe. Lit up at night, that thing is Treezilla. I suspect it pulled itself up from the ground and is making it's way to Dallas as we speak. Man oh man oh man. It seriously gave me the willies, I can't explain why. Evil evil tree.
The one thing I wanted to mention about Los Angeles is this: people there will give you a ride at the drop of a hat. My first night there, at the media thing (which I have been told is Not To Be Blogged, so just imagine my fabulous fun), a nice girl with a very cool VW Bug that runs on biodiesel (the blend of the evening? walnut oil!) offered and gave me a ride to my hotel after talking to me for no joke, like ten seconds. Then on Monday, I asked a waiter about getting on the right bus to get to my photo shoot, and he ended up giving me a lift on his way home. And THEN, after the shoot, a remarkable woman who is one of the directors of an amazing organization called Stop Prison Rape gave me a ride. Not once did I ask or even do that shifty "Oh, if ONLY I had a ride home!" thing, either. It was so nice that it was almost creepy, although that probably just means I'm a selfish ass. At least I'm self-aware.
So, Angelinos? You are very very cool, unless you drive a taxi. In which case, you are a vampire. Seventy dollars to get from LAX to Hollywood? Thanks for the lift, Nosferatu.
March 8, 2007
March 2, 2007
"I'm leeeeavin' on a jet plane..."
I'm sitting in the airport, leaving for LA in about an hour. I'm excited and nervous. Excited because I've never been to California, and nervous because I'm attending a dinner meeting thing with some cool, high-powered industry people. I'd like to make an impression beyond "some fat yokel". Although, you know, I'll take that if I have to.
I talked to Kerry on my way to the airport, and he's crazy busy with his book promotion tour. He did twenty-eight interviews and radio show phone-ins yesterday. I suspect that's a nice problem to have. He sounds exhausted and a little flustered, but to be honest, he also sounds happy. Good for him.
As for me, I'm happy to be getting out of town for a few days.
That's it. What, you were waiting for something meaningful?
Um, okay, a quick political observation. In recent weeks, both Barack Obama and John McCain have referred to the deaths of American soldiers in Iraq as a "waste", and both have quickly backtracked when patriotic eyebrows began wiggling menacingly across this great land.
Two candidates for the presidency are soooooooooo close to showing the courage to speak the truth about the war, but in the end, both hedged. I am both heartened and disgusted. As for the Democratic Party, which called on McCain to apologize for using the term mere weeks after Obama did the exact same thing, WTF? Knee-jerk, safe politics are going to serve you exactly as well in the next presidential election as they did in the last two. Show us something better, if you can. Some integrity and ideological consistency might be a good place to start.
I watched the Bob Woodruff story on traumatic brain injuries last week, and it rejuvenated all my anti-war feelings in a way that I hadn't felt in a long time. I don't think I'm going to be able to vote for anyone of either party who has supported this war, certainly not within the past two years or so. That narrows my choice of candidates considerably, at least as the field stands now. Who knows what will happen in the coming months?
Wouldn't it be funny, after my notorious Nader "Green Days of Shame" of 2000, if I ended up voting for Al Gore?
Okay, time to fly. See you when I get to the land of the Beautiful People. I assume I will feel like Jabba the Hutt the whole time.
February 27, 2007
Chasing Justice
My friend Kerry Max Cook's book, Chasing Justice: My Story of Freeing Myself After Two Decades on Death Row for a Crime I Didn't Commit, hit the stores today. I'm listening to him on NPR's Diane Rehm Show right now. He's doing a great job, but then, his story is compelling, almost unbearably so. He's my friend; we hang out and take our kids to movies together, and yet when I look at him and watch him move through the world, I still can't grasp that he survived this experience and came through the other side.
Here's how HarperCollins describes his story:
Kerry Max Cook was convicted on the basis of some very dubious testimony by one witness (who described a person with an entirely different appearance) and a fellow prisoner who claimed that Kerry confessed the crime to him, despite the fact that Kerry was held in solitary confinement at the time. The evidence against Kerry consisted of a fingerprint on the victim's patio door. An "expert" for the prosecution testified that the fingerprint had been left during the time frame of the murder. Such a time-sensitive determination on a fingerprint is scientifically impossible; they might as well have consulted a psychic.
The Kerry Max Cook that I know seems so far away from that life. He's a warm father and playful husband with a quick sense of humor a wildly optimistic nature. He talks openly about his terrible story, but his eye is on the future.
In a few days, I'll be flying to Los Angeles to join Kerry for a big celebrity book party being thrown for him. I'll be there as his photographer, and as his friend. I hope his book does well, but more than that, I hope Kerry gets the life he deserves.
God knows, if anyone has paid in advance for happiness, it's Kerry Max Cook.
Here's how HarperCollins describes his story:
Wrongfully convicted of killing a young woman in Texas, Cook was sentenced to death in 1978 and served two decades on death row, in a prison system so notoriously brutal and violent that in 1980 a federal court ruled that serving time in Texas's jails was "cruel and unusual punishment." As scores of men around him were executed, Cook relentlessly battled a legal system that wanted him dead; meanwhile he fought daily to survive amid unspeakable conditions and routine assaults. When an advocate and a crusading lawyer joined his struggle in the 1990s, a series of retrials was forced. At last, in November 1996, Texas's highest appeals court threw out Cook's conviction, citing overwhelming evidence of police and prosecutorial misconduct.
And finally in the spring of 1999 long-overlooked DNA evidence was tested and it linked another man to the rape and murder for which Cook had been convicted. Today, Cook is a free man and the proud father of a young son.
Kerry Max Cook was convicted on the basis of some very dubious testimony by one witness (who described a person with an entirely different appearance) and a fellow prisoner who claimed that Kerry confessed the crime to him, despite the fact that Kerry was held in solitary confinement at the time. The evidence against Kerry consisted of a fingerprint on the victim's patio door. An "expert" for the prosecution testified that the fingerprint had been left during the time frame of the murder. Such a time-sensitive determination on a fingerprint is scientifically impossible; they might as well have consulted a psychic.
The Kerry Max Cook that I know seems so far away from that life. He's a warm father and playful husband with a quick sense of humor a wildly optimistic nature. He talks openly about his terrible story, but his eye is on the future.
In a few days, I'll be flying to Los Angeles to join Kerry for a big celebrity book party being thrown for him. I'll be there as his photographer, and as his friend. I hope his book does well, but more than that, I hope Kerry gets the life he deserves.
God knows, if anyone has paid in advance for happiness, it's Kerry Max Cook.
February 25, 2007
Boring but brief
Two quick operational notes:
1) Apple's iWeb application makes pretty websites, by golly, so I've been using it for my other nonbloggerly pages. The problem is that it's not easily customizable, and if you're not hosting your site on Apple's servers, things like blog comments don't work without third party (or possible divine) intervention.
Well, I found a way to do it, I think, using my old HaloScan comment account from my journal. So far it doesn't seem to function consistently, however, and it formats weirdly. I'm still trying to tweak it. Still, it appears to be working, kind of sort of maybe perhaps, so if there's anything that you ever wanted to comment on or abuse me for over at the book blog, now's your chance.
(Someone also told me that the "comments" link doesn't actually look like a link. Perhaps I am going to have to break up with iWeb soon.)
2) In the next week or so, the name and URL of this blog will be changing, in part for boring legal reasons and also to bring it into parallel with the book site. The content and feel won't change (not sure if that's good news or just... news), so not a huge deal. Once it changes, this URL should still take you here, so I won't just disappear. Just a little heads up.
1) Apple's iWeb application makes pretty websites, by golly, so I've been using it for my other nonbloggerly pages. The problem is that it's not easily customizable, and if you're not hosting your site on Apple's servers, things like blog comments don't work without third party (or possible divine) intervention.
Well, I found a way to do it, I think, using my old HaloScan comment account from my journal. So far it doesn't seem to function consistently, however, and it formats weirdly. I'm still trying to tweak it. Still, it appears to be working, kind of sort of maybe perhaps, so if there's anything that you ever wanted to comment on or abuse me for over at the book blog, now's your chance.
(Someone also told me that the "comments" link doesn't actually look like a link. Perhaps I am going to have to break up with iWeb soon.)
2) In the next week or so, the name and URL of this blog will be changing, in part for boring legal reasons and also to bring it into parallel with the book site. The content and feel won't change (not sure if that's good news or just... news), so not a huge deal. Once it changes, this URL should still take you here, so I won't just disappear. Just a little heads up.
February 23, 2007
Martin
A few weeks ago, we took Schuyler to the Dallas Museum of Art. She had a good time looking at all the smartifying stuff, I'm happy to say, but honestly, it was when we ended up in the gift shop that we really started having fun. Schuyler, because she's seven, and me because, well, because I'm me.
They had puppets, and she fell in love. Which is how we ended up with a monster. Schuyler's new monster.
We call him Martin.
There's something I've wanted to try with Schuyler for a while, an idea I had during a box class parents' meeting a few months ago. Schuyler's condition hasn't affected her in some of the more serious ways that other kids suffer from, like seizures and serious dysphagia. (When I say "suffer", I'm not kidding; the polymicrogyria group I belong to is a regular source of truly sad stories.)
But when it comes to her speech, she's been hit hard. She is completely nonverbal, with almost no consonants at all. The thing is, however, that she's got all the vowels and she's got perfect inflection. She's trying, so hard that it will break your heart, and furthermore she hears the words and sounds that she's trying to make. If you hand her something, her "thank you" sounds so convincing that unless you're paying close attention, you don't realize that she actually said "Ain oo".
Ironically, it's those inflections and sincere attempts at speech that can sometimes stand in her way of moving forward on the Big Box of Words. Not at school, I don't think. In her class, all the cool kids talk like cyborgs, so she's excited to do the same.
(That's unless she's feeling like a punk, as she was yesterday, although that may very well be because her box class teacher has been out this week. Apparently harassing substitutes teachers is a genetic trait, because I was a dick to every sub I ever had. One more item on the list of crimes that the devil will be reading off when I die, although honestly, I'm sure it would be on like page thirty.)
When she's at home with Julie and me, however, Schuyler gets lazy with her device, for the simple reason that we can understand a lot of what she says. She's a smart kid; she knows this, even when we pretend otherwise. When she's with us, she doesn't like to use her device.
Thus my idea for the puppet. I just didn't expect it to work so well.
She won't always use the box for us. But it turns out that for Martin? She'll do anything. Last night we studied for a spelling test that she has today, but it wasn't until Martin started asking her how to spell the words on her list that she became enthusiastic about it.
Schuyler's a complicated person, and always has been. She knows that Martin's just a puppet, and that her father is the one manipulating him, just like she used to understand that when I said "Don't eat that!", the goal was to get her to, well, eat that.
Like her father, Schuyler's defining characteristic is that she does not like being told what to do. Monster or not, she negotiates her own terms with the world.
They had puppets, and she fell in love. Which is how we ended up with a monster. Schuyler's new monster.
We call him Martin.
There's something I've wanted to try with Schuyler for a while, an idea I had during a box class parents' meeting a few months ago. Schuyler's condition hasn't affected her in some of the more serious ways that other kids suffer from, like seizures and serious dysphagia. (When I say "suffer", I'm not kidding; the polymicrogyria group I belong to is a regular source of truly sad stories.)
But when it comes to her speech, she's been hit hard. She is completely nonverbal, with almost no consonants at all. The thing is, however, that she's got all the vowels and she's got perfect inflection. She's trying, so hard that it will break your heart, and furthermore she hears the words and sounds that she's trying to make. If you hand her something, her "thank you" sounds so convincing that unless you're paying close attention, you don't realize that she actually said "Ain oo".
Ironically, it's those inflections and sincere attempts at speech that can sometimes stand in her way of moving forward on the Big Box of Words. Not at school, I don't think. In her class, all the cool kids talk like cyborgs, so she's excited to do the same.
(That's unless she's feeling like a punk, as she was yesterday, although that may very well be because her box class teacher has been out this week. Apparently harassing substitutes teachers is a genetic trait, because I was a dick to every sub I ever had. One more item on the list of crimes that the devil will be reading off when I die, although honestly, I'm sure it would be on like page thirty.)
When she's at home with Julie and me, however, Schuyler gets lazy with her device, for the simple reason that we can understand a lot of what she says. She's a smart kid; she knows this, even when we pretend otherwise. When she's with us, she doesn't like to use her device.
Thus my idea for the puppet. I just didn't expect it to work so well.
She won't always use the box for us. But it turns out that for Martin? She'll do anything. Last night we studied for a spelling test that she has today, but it wasn't until Martin started asking her how to spell the words on her list that she became enthusiastic about it.
Schuyler's a complicated person, and always has been. She knows that Martin's just a puppet, and that her father is the one manipulating him, just like she used to understand that when I said "Don't eat that!", the goal was to get her to, well, eat that.
Like her father, Schuyler's defining characteristic is that she does not like being told what to do. Monster or not, she negotiates her own terms with the world.
February 21, 2007
Grey Anatomy
I was making some minor but detailed changes to a photograph today, the one I'm using for my promotional headshots for the time being, and in doing so, I had to blow it up to actual pixel size. And that's when I saw it.
I'm going grey, by golly.
It's in its early stages, and I'll certainly take that over balding, only because I'm pretty sure my bald head would be all lumpy and fat-rolly. Not a bad look for a pro wrestler or a bouncer, but not really the vibe that I'm shooting for.
The thing that concerns me is that it's happening quickly, like in a matter of a few short months. It's like my body's getting ready for my next birthday. You know the one. Thirty-ten.
In case you're wondering, the answer is no, I haven't gotten my edited manuscript back from St. Martin's yet. I assume they had to order more red Sharpies.
I'm going grey, by golly.
It's in its early stages, and I'll certainly take that over balding, only because I'm pretty sure my bald head would be all lumpy and fat-rolly. Not a bad look for a pro wrestler or a bouncer, but not really the vibe that I'm shooting for.
The thing that concerns me is that it's happening quickly, like in a matter of a few short months. It's like my body's getting ready for my next birthday. You know the one. Thirty-ten.
In case you're wondering, the answer is no, I haven't gotten my edited manuscript back from St. Martin's yet. I assume they had to order more red Sharpies.
February 16, 2007
Armchair Apocrypha
Speaking of music I like, NPR is featuring Andrew Bird on their website. Specifically, they're focusing on a song from his new album, Armchair Apocrypha.
Let's take a hypothetical scenario for a moment. Suppose a hypothetical but extremely cool reader sent me a hypothetical copy of the new album, due out in a month or so. What would my hypothetical opinion be?
I'd say it was awesome, with a move away from the acoustic sound of his most recent stuff but once again totally unique.
You know. Hypothetically.
(Edited to make it clear that I have (hypothetically) already been sent the cd. This wasn't an attempt to weasel free stuff out of anyone. Don't worry, you'll know when I'm mooching.)
Bug
Well, my weekend plans have changed slightly.
She seemed absolutely fine when she got on the bus, but about an hour later, we got the call. Schuyler is suffering from either the flu or demonic possession.
It sucks when any kid is sick, but with Schuyler, it's extra heartbreaking because she can't really tell us very much about how she feels. The Big Box of Words helps to some extent, but it requires a certain amount of concentration and clarity that might just be somewhat lacking at the moment when your stomach is threatening to go all Vesuvius on you. Sometimes there's not much of a high-tech alternative to yelling "Gotta puke!"
We were practicing just now.
"So if you feel like you're going to throw up, here's a trash can," I told her as she lay on the couch. "Be sure to move Jasper out of the way first." (I swear, he looked worried.)
She nodded her head.
"Okay, so you need to let me know if you feel like you're going to be sick. What are you going to say if you feel like you're going to throw up?"
She opened her mouth and howled at me. "Aaahh!"
That'll do.
She seemed absolutely fine when she got on the bus, but about an hour later, we got the call. Schuyler is suffering from either the flu or demonic possession.
It sucks when any kid is sick, but with Schuyler, it's extra heartbreaking because she can't really tell us very much about how she feels. The Big Box of Words helps to some extent, but it requires a certain amount of concentration and clarity that might just be somewhat lacking at the moment when your stomach is threatening to go all Vesuvius on you. Sometimes there's not much of a high-tech alternative to yelling "Gotta puke!"
We were practicing just now.
"So if you feel like you're going to throw up, here's a trash can," I told her as she lay on the couch. "Be sure to move Jasper out of the way first." (I swear, he looked worried.)
She nodded her head.
"Okay, so you need to let me know if you feel like you're going to be sick. What are you going to say if you feel like you're going to throw up?"
She opened her mouth and howled at me. "Aaahh!"
That'll do.
Cover story
(Originally posted at SCHUYLER'S MONSTER.)
When Wired writer and first-time novelist James Bernard Frost didn't care for the cover art for his novel World Leader Pretend, he hired artist Dave Warnke to design a funky new cover sticker to replace the one on the trade paperback.
The publisher in question is St. Martin's Press, the same people putting out Schuyler’s Monster. Well, of course it is.
The truth is, however, that I'm not concerned. For one thing, I think a cover design for my book is going to be pretty straightforward and simple. The title is short and striking, if I may be so snotty, and if there's one thing I think we can all agree on, it's that I've taken a few photographs of Schuyler. Finding one that works for a book cover shouldn't be a difficult task.
For another thing, when I went and read the story, I got the impression that while St. Martin’s Press didn't give the author what he wanted, they did at least make a good faith effort to change the elements that he objected to. He even admits that the whole story has been blown out of proportion.
No, what fascinated me about the story isn't some fear that St. Martin's is going to put a picture of an alligator or a killer robot on my cover. I'm more interested in the fact that if not for the GalleyCat article, I don't know that I would have ever heard of Frost's book or made it to his blog. It looks like I'm not the only one noticing because of this story, either.
Not every successful publicity opportunity comes from a marketing plan. I wonder how St. Martin's will react to this.
February 14, 2007
Quiet
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.
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.
February 12, 2007
The Twitchy Time
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.
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.
February 4, 2007
As good as a paternity test, revisited
(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.)
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.)
January 31, 2007
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.
January 30, 2007
Oh, who are the people in your neighborhood?
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January 28, 2007
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."
"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."
January 25, 2007
Zoboomafoo and Steve Irwin are corrupting the children of America
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.
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.
January 23, 2007
The Pleasurable Irritation of the New
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.
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.
January 20, 2007
Of mermaids and aphasia
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.
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.
January 15, 2007
Autobiography
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.
---
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.
January 13, 2007
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...
January 12, 2007
Eighty-four
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.
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.
January 11, 2007
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.
January 8, 2007
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.
January 7, 2007
Silent partner
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.
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.
January 5, 2007
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.
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.
January 3, 2007
84,885 words
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.
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.
January 1, 2007
Happy New Year
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.
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.
December 27, 2006
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.
December 24, 2006
Like any other kid at Christmas
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.
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.
December 22, 2006
Quality of Life
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.
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.)
December 21, 2006
December 20, 2006
As good as a paternity test
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."
"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
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.
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.
December 17, 2006
Wearing my fancy pants
(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.
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.
December 10, 2006
Box Friends
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.
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.
December 9, 2006
If my plane crashes, this crappy post will be my legacy to the world.
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.
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.
December 5, 2006
The Essential Schuyler
(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):
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.
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
(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):
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.
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.
December 3, 2006
Comfort the disturbed.
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.
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.
December 2, 2006
"Cue sympathy in 3... 2... 1..."
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.
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.
December 1, 2006
No parking.
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.
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.
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.
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