What They Don't Tell You

We’ve all seen movies where hapless, sensationally unprepared people are thrust suddenly into parenthood.  The filmmakers usually swing broadly here, giving us any number of comedic diaper malfunctions and projectile vomiting. 

I can’t help rolling my eyes because these things become so commonplace so quickly that they’re basically irrelevant. The other day, my five-month-old puked on me with such force that it nearly knocked me over.  Still, as warm formula and ground-up carrots ran from my chest down to my lap, I don’t even think I changed my facial expression.  My only real concern was whether or not any of it got in my soda.

What the film industry fails to prepare young parents for is something far more difficult to deal with, and that is, well…boredom.  Caring for small children can be really, really boring.  There, I said it.

I know that sounds terrible and I should probably stop typing and go report myself to Social Services immediately, but, if you have little kids, you know that I’m right, particularly on Sunday afternoons in March when it’s just barely too cold to go outside. 

You’d love to read or go see a movie at an actual theater.  You’d love to listen to music, eat at a restaurant, attend a sporting event, go for a run, drive without having someone scream gibberish at you from the backseat, or have an interesting conversation with a grownup.  Sadly, these things aren’t possible right now—and they won’t be for awhile.   

So, instead, you sit around the house.  And when I say “around the house,” I actually mean “on the floor,” because your two-year-old wants to play a game she made up called “Climb on Daddy.”  And when she says, “Climb on Daddy,” what she actually means is “Step on Daddy’s Crotch.”  And while your crotch is being stepped on, you’ll be watching the second half of some random, heavily edited-for-TV movie on ABC Family that you found while endlessly flipping.  Today, for me, that movie was Love Actually.  And you’ll do this all one-handed, because your five-month-old will insist on being in your arms the entire time, and if you put her down, even for a second, she’ll scream until she’s red-faced and gagging, and she’s not due for another nap for at least two more hours.

And, for the love of God, what’s that smell?  Whatever it is, the whole house smells like it. 

Please, don’t take this as me complaining. I chose all of this for myself—we all do, eventually.  But if you haven’t made this choice yet, I beg you to turn off whatever device it is that you’re reading this on and go somewhere. It doesn’t matter where. Seriously.  Anywhere. Please.  You may never have the chance again.

In the meantime, I’ll leave you with the transcript of a conversation I had with my daughter today. Twice.     

“I want to eat a cookie, Daddy.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve been eating cookies all day.”

“I want one, though.”

“You make a good argument, but no.”

“Can I have a cookie now?”

“No.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Can I have a cookie?”

“No.  Wait, honey, why are you making that face?  Do you have to go to the potty?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?  How about we sit on the potty for a minute?”

“No. I don’t have to.”

“Really?”

“Daddy, can I have a cookie to eat now?”

“No.”

“Daddy?”

“What?”

“I went poop.”

thenormannation@gmail.com

The Oddest Moment So Far

A few months ago, I found myself sitting alone in a bar in New York City.  As romantic as that might sound, I was actually anxious and, truth be told, a little hungover.  

The bartender asked me what I wanted, and so I ordered a vodka & soda, which was weird because I’d never in my entire life ordered one of those.  I have this strange glitch in my personality that causes me to panic order in bars when I’m nervous—I simply shout out the first drink that pops into my head. 

As I sat there sipping my very first vodka & soda ever, I took a deep breath and tried to come to grips with two competing strands of anxiety.  First, in about an hour I’d be reading from my novel at the KGB Bar in the East Village.  I hadn’t done many readings at that point, and I was second-guessing the section I’d picked, which dramatizes, in graphic detail, my main character’s erectile dysfunction.  Second, I was about to meet with a movie producer to discuss film rights. 

I was wearing a sport coat, which seemed writerly enough, but, other than that, I felt very much over my head.  I’d never met a movie producer before.  In fact, short of pointing at a startled-looking Ben Affleck once and shouting, “That’s Ben Affleck!” I’d never even spoken with someone from the film industry. 

When the producer arrived, I was thrown immediately by two things: he was obviously younger than me, and he was even more obviously taller than me.  The latter is fairly rare, and so I was struck with this vague sense of vertigo, the way you feel when you look up for too long at a tree or a building.   

“Hi, Matt,” he said.

“Hey, Matt,” I replied.  

We both have the same name.  As you can imagine, this happens to people named Matt a lot. 

We sat down and started talking, picking up where we’d left off earlier that week over the phone.  Matt ordered a drink, and he did so in such a way that led me to believe he’d actually intended to order that particular drink.  I admired that about him.  We chatted about books and the types of movies we like, and I couldn’t help but enjoy what was happening.  Matt was there to convince me that I should entrust my novel to him, and I was there, for some reason, pretending that I needed to be convinced. 

And then the entire bar started shaking. 

When it stopped, Matt and I looked at each other. “What was that?” one of us asked.

“An earthquake?” said the other. 

“Holy shit.” 

“I know.”

There were maybe five or six other people in the bar, and they all seemed to be having this exact same conversation.  However, people in the Northeastern United States are used to inexplicable, ominous things, so, after a moment, Matt and I carried on more or less like nothing had happened. We talked about actors and directors and screenwriters.  We talked about college football and how we both have relatives in the South.  We talked about literary agents and my writing process.

And then the entire bar started shaking again.  It shook and then stopped.  And then it shook again.  And then we heard frantic Spanish coming from the kitchen.  And then someone swore loudly.  And then we both at the exact same time saw that people outside of the bar were stopped dead in the street and were pointing up. 

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” said Matt.   

One of the unusual phenomena of publishing your first novel is that you find yourself in situations that you’ve imagined many times before. It’s similar to your wedding or the birth of your first child.  While it’s happening, you can’t help yourself from comparing it to how you thought it’d be.  I’d imagined meeting with movie producers, of course, every wannabe novelist has.  But five minutes later, as Matt and I stood on the curb outside holding our drinks and watching smoke billow from the top of the building we’d just scrambled from, I was aware that I’d imagined this meeting going differently.   

Fire engines had arrived from every conceivable angle.  Sirens were blaring and people were wandering out onto the street to watch as fireman climbed ladders and readied hoses and shouted instructions. 

“So,” said Matt. “I’m really excited about this project.”

“Yeah, man,” I said.  “Me, too.”

Q FOLLOWED BY A

I recently went on this really great new Website called Facebook and asked some readers if they had any questions about my novel, Domestic Violets, or about writing in general.  Here are some of the questions that turned up, followed by the answers that my team of assistants and ghostwriters put together in response.

You’ll notice that some people asked more than one question—often as many as three. Well played, readers.  Well played indeed. 

If you haven’t "Liked Me" on Facebook yet, you absolutely should.  In difficult times like these, I think the world needs to like me now more than ever before. 

Gigi C. asked...

Q: Who are your favorite authors?

A: I’ve got a lot of them.  Richard Russo for starters.  I read Straight Man and Nobody’s Fool in college.  I remember the exact moment in Straight Man—during a scene that starred a goose—when I realized that serious fiction could also be funny, which was a valuable lesson for me. John Irving is another old-school favorite of mine.  His best books have lingered in my head for a very long time.  I have an intellectual crush on Lorrie Moore.  Birds of America is one of my favorite story collections. David Sedaris, Nick Hornby, Kurt Vonnegut, Philip Roth, Jay McInerney, Zadie Smith, and Zoe Heller are all fantastic, too.  I could go on and on. 

Q: If they made DOMESTIC VIOLETS into a movie, who would you pick to play Tom and his father?

A: I actually can’t comment on Curtis’s role quite yet.  The book is in the very final stages of being optioned, and an incredibly awesome actor has called dibs on Curtis. More on that soon—I’m told the deal is done and it’s just a matter of signing contracts at this point.   

As for Tom, I never really had anyone in mind for him when I was writing the book, but I think Jason Bateman would be an interesting choice.  He’s a little older than Tom, but there’s this melancholy world-weariness about him that I think fits well.  My agent actually floated the idea of Bradley Cooper a few months ago.  I think it’d be a cool character for him to play.  He’s an actor who always plays the best looking, most charismatic guy in the room.  Seeing him dial that star wattage down a little could be really compelling—sort of like George Clooney in The Descendants.

Oh…and even though you didn’t ask, a friend of mine insists that Justin Timberlake needs to play Brandon, Tom’s would-be agent.  Now I can’t get that out of my head. 

Q: Do you listen to music while you write, or do you write in silence?

A: Absolute silence is terrifying, so I always, always have something on when I’m working. I normally don’t like listening to my favorite albums when I’m writing, though, like Achtung Baby by U2 or Yankee Hotel Foxtrot by Wilco.  I’m too close to the music I love to have it not take over whatever I’m doing.  So, I usually have Pandora running on my computer in the background. Also, a friend of mine made me a mixed CD of movie scores a few years ago.  I go with that sometimes if lyrics are messing me up.  Scores are good because they’re all sound, mood, and emotion...but no words. 

Abby F. asked...

Q: Is there an author that inspired you to begin writing?

A: When I was as kid—like 11 to 17 or so—I read a ton of Stephen King.  I wanted to grow up to be a horror writer.  I totally ripped him off my freshman year in high school in a story I wrote for the literary magazine.  It was about a hunter who mounts all of these horrible trophies and animal heads in his study.  One night all the animals come back to life and maul him to death.  It remains my crowing literary achievement.  One of the janitors at my school actually made a formal complaint to the English department.  He was a big hunter, so I guess he was offended.

Matt Z. asked...

Q: How long did it take you to write your first draft?

A: The first draft took about a year, give or take. 

Q: When is your writing most productive: morning or night?

A: My entire adult life I’ve had 9-5 jobs, so nighttime is really when I do almost all of my writing. Even on weekends it’s tough to get much work done until after my two daughters have gone to bed. That said, nighttime writing is really more out of necessity than preference.  I’d love to wake up every morning, go for a run, and then sit down and get to work.  That’s every writer’s dream. Maybe some day. 

Q: Did you do an outline first?

A: I’ve never formally written an outline.  I do, however, always have key plot points in mind that I’m writing toward, which make up a loose plot in my head.  With Domestic Violets, I had a very clear idea how the book would end from day one, so that was really helpful for generating momentum—sort of like downhill writing.  For the novel I’m working on now, the end is a little hazier, but there are still some key turns that I know I’m going to want to take.  And I’m still trying to work a vampire in there somewhere.  A really good-looking vampire.  And possibly a car that transforms into a fighting robot.

Laura M. asked...

Q: How much time did you spend on revisions after the first draft was complete?

A: As I mentioned earlier, that first draft took about a year.  After that, I messed with it incessantly for about six months, just obsessing over the language and details.  Once I had something that I decided was finished enough, my agent sent it to a handful of editors where it began racking up an impressive string of rejections. 

Then the financial crisis happened.  I remember one day I was watching the news and I had this horrible sense of impending doom—and it was doom that I didn’t even really understand. A couple of days later, I started messing with the book again and trying to weave some of that confusion/anxiety into the story.  Six months later, I’d basically blown the whole novel up and set it squarely in the middle of the mess.  It really helped add some urgency to the "Death Star" sections of the book.

So, long answer short: one year to write the first draft, and about one more year of editing and fiddling and reworking and destroying. 

thenormannation@gmail.com 

Vote for Domestic Violets

Hello, Readers.

I'm pleased to announce that my novel, Domestic Violets, has been nominated in the Best Humor Category at the 2011 Goodreads Choice Awards. I've never won an award before, and, judging from the other nominees in this category, I don't see it happening here, but my team of assistants and ghostwriters and I would certainly appreciate your vote.  Just click on the link below.

Also, if you know any Goodreads nerds who have read the book, please feel free to pass this along to them, too.

And if you don't have a Goodreads account, you should sign up for one.  It's free, and, in the year 2011, you really can't call yourself a nerd without one.

2011 Goodreads Choice Awards: Best Best Humor Vote now for your favorite books!

That’s Not a Cookie

This weekend, my brother-in-law and his wife were in town for a visit.  As they often do, they brought their dog with them, a Cocker Spaniel-Poodle mix named Snood. 

As a dog lover, my feelings for Snood are complicated. Superficially speaking, he’s very cute.  He’s small, maybe fifteen pounds or so, and he’s got these crazy Yoda ears that jet out from his tiny head like satellite dishes.  Dig a little deeper though, and you find that Snood has some quirks.  He’s weirdly possessive.  He’s prone to unprovoked flashes of violence. He tries to hump my dog Grady constantly. And, he responds to even the slightest perceived mistreatment by revenge-crapping in random spots in the house.

Around 10 a.m. this morning, my daughter told me that she needed to have her diaper changed.  She did this the way she always does, by grabbing the crotch of her pants and shouting gibberish at me with a distressed look on her face. 

When it comes to diaper changing, my daughter tends to be all business.  She usually runs ahead to her changing table, allows herself to be picked up and placed in position, and then she lays there bored while my wife or I tend to her. This morning though, when we got to her bedroom, she broke protocol and ran to the center of the room.  “It’s a cookie!” she yelled.

“What?”

Confused, I watched as my daughter picked up what looked like a shriveled brownie from the carpet.  She held it out to me, the way you might if you were walking down the street with a friend and you found a hundred dollar bill on the sidewalk.  “Cookie, cookie!  It’s a cookie!”

“Oh, God,” I said.  It had taken me a full five seconds to figure out what was happening.  “Baby, no.  Drop that.  Drop it right now!”

As I moved quickly toward her, her expression changed to one that I've seen on other people's faces before, but never hers. It was an older-person's look, a mature, beaten-down expression that I can only describe as slow, grim realization.   

Before dropping the small brown wad onto the floor, she said, simply, “It’s poop, Daddy.  It’s poop.”

I sometimes imagine what it would be like if Snood could talk.  I do this with almost all dogs.  I'm certain he'd have a high-pitched, slightly effeminate voice.  “She picked it up?” he’d say. "You're kidding.  With her bare hands?  Well, maybe next time you'll think twice before yelling at me for jumping onto your kitchen table while you're eating breakfast and licking your pancakes.  I’m just saying.”

thenormannation@gmail.com

The Anti-Process

Since selling my first novel, Domestic Violets, and being catapulted into literary obscurity, people have from time to time asked about my writing process. Whenever this happens, I’m faced with a moral dilemma.  Do I lie and say something intellectual, or do I, against my better judgment, tell the truth.

Over the last five years, I’ve managed to get a full-time job, a full-time wife, and a full-time daughter.  And so my process is, admittedly, less than regimented. 

I sit down in my little office upstairs and read CNN.com and tell myself that it’s important for a writer to be informed. If my daughter is asleep, I look at the tiny video monitor on my desk that allows me to watch a black and white version of her hugging her stuffed animals. I spend about 20 minutes wondering how my generation survived without our parents having the ability to stare at us electronically while we slept.

Next, I find a good station on Pandora and check my email. And then I check Facebook. And then I check Twitter. Then I hit CNN.com again, just in case the world has ended in the last few minutes.

I’m usually pretty thirsty by then, so I go downstairs into the kitchen for a Diet Dr Pepper.  If I see my dog along the way, I check in and see how his day’s going.  And then, with a full soda, I locate my wife. We chat for a bit about nothing in particular until she reminds me that I’m supposed to be writing. 

“Umm, that’s what I’m doing,” I tell her.

Back upstairs, I open my Word document and read over whatever I’d managed to accomplish the day before.  I spend about 30 minutes being appalled by how bad it is. I make it better by moving the sentences around and changing all of the semi-colons to commas.  Then I consider the ramifications of growing a beard.  My wife would hate it, but I think it would make me look edgier. 

Finally, when all of those things are done, and when I can’t think of anything else that needs to be done, I write a sentence.  Then I delete it and write it again.  And then I write a paragraph.  And then I write maybe one or two more.  And then I read them aloud all at once, and they sound really good.  I like the flow and how they look on my screen.  They’re definitely missing semi-colons, though, and so I go back in and add some of those.

And then I go on Facebook and tell all my friends not to bother me because I’m writing.

thenormannation@gmail.com

Talky Talky

Last week I appeared—or, I guess, I virtually appeared—on Book Club Girl on Air, which is a cool online radio show in which authors call in and are interviewed about their books and answer questions from listeners from around the country.

A few minutes before show time, I was pacing around my office, a little twitchy from a Diet Dr Pepper bing.  I could kind of hear my daughter chattering downstairs, and there was a good bit of thunder somewhere in the distance.  It dawned on me then that I’d never really talked publically about the book in any significant way. 

I knew the story inside and out, of course.  I’d written and rewritten just about every page a dozen or so times, but as the hold music played in my ear, I found myself wondering what the book…means? And then I wondered if it means anything.  And then the music stopped and I heard a voice in my ear:  “Hi, everyone, this is Erica Barmash for Book Club Girl on Air…” 

The show had begun.  Perhaps I should have thought of these things earlier.

It turns out, of course, that my neurosis, like most of my neurosis, was unnecessary. As Erica asked me things—and later as listeners asked me other things—it became clear, at least to me, that I kind of knew what I was talking about.  And after listening to the show again after the fact, a few other things became clear, too. My voice sounds weirder in real life than it does in my head. I need to work on not saying “um” and “sort of” so much. And, when push comes to shove, I guess I really do hate cats. 

You can listen to the entire show uninterrupted now by clicking this link.  I hope you find it interesting. And to all the cat people out there, I’m sorry.  I don’t really think cats are like tiny, meaner Woody Allens.  I have no idea where that came from.

thenormannation@gmail.com