The Zen of Manliness

by Writer Dad on December 4, 2008

“People have to talk about something just to keep their voice boxes in working order so they’ll have good voice boxes in case there’s ever anything really meaningful to say.”

~Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

About a month ago, I wrote two guest posts back to back.  Both for sites I really liked, and both escorted to my door by the kindness of others.  They’ve been off of my desk for over three weeks.  Coincidentally, they both landed within a day of one another.

The first is from Zen Habits.  Leo is one of the reasons I started blogging.  I came across his blog when the word still tumbled around my mouth with an unfamiliar taste, like flange or kumquat.  I found him on Digg, and was struck by the long arm of a single voice.

The second post is from the Art of Manliness, a truly unique Blogopolis beacon.  It’s an old fashioned blog (if such an oxymoron could ever exist), that speaks to the lost art of being a man.

I’m especially proud of these two posts, and would like to point you in their direction.  The Zen Habits post is “Breaking a Bad Habit Shatters the Rung Beneath You.” The Art of Manliness post is  “Teaching My Son to be a Man.”

If you have a moment, please check them out.  I’d also like to thank Eric Hamm for putting Leo and I together, and Hayden Tompkins for finding me a place where I could share what Daisy, Max, and Mia have taught me about being a man.  Thanks guys.

Writer Dad

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{ 17 comments }

The Tall, Tall Man

by Writer Dad on December 3, 2008

If you are here from Zen Habits or the Art of Manliness, welcome. You can subscribe to the feed here. Dig through the archives, they’re a lot of fun. Thanks.

“Memory is a child walking along a seashore.  You never can tell what small pebble it will pick up and store away among its treasured things.”

~Pierce Harris, Atlanta Journal

Max’s eyebrows crawl together and his upper lip is swallowed by the lower.  “The library?” he asks.  His nose is scrunched because he knows the answer’s no.

I shake my head.  Max is on his three-hundred and forty-seventh guess, give or take.  “Try again.”

“Ummmmm…” he elasticizes his m’s until they are almost at a chant.  “Disneyland?”

I would say his predictions are growing outlandish, except that three queries back he guessed Texas, and we definitely had no intention of crossing any significant border.

“The park where they have a statue of the tall, tall man?”

I say “No,” but this particular guess sees me scooping Max up, spinning him around and tossing him on the bed.  “Guess again.”

The tall, tall man is Abraham Lincoln, who happens to have a statue at a park we haven’t stepped foot on since Max was only two.

The answer was the movies, just in case you (like Max) are dying from suspense.  We were planning to see Bolt.  One of our clients gifted us cinema and Pixar light sounded grand.

“The garbage dump?”

I shake my head.

“The beach?”

“Too cold, buddy.”

At this point, Max has been guessing for nearly forty minutes, and I’m a bit shocked he hasn’t yet swished the net.  He’s been to the movies a handful of times, which is more than I can say for Texas, the Island of Sodor, or Japan, which added together climb to the sum total of never.

“Outer Space?” his voice hits a pitch revealing his knowledge of the nonsensical nature of his giddy little guess.

“Yes!” I exclaim.

“No, we can not do that.”  Max shakes his head and drops to his knees in a fit of giggles.

Max never did guess, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.  Amazingly, he never quit.  No matter how many times he yielded a negative, he kept pecking around in search of a positive.

But that’s not what this story’s about.

Max was undaunted sure, but the reason I’m passing this story to forever is because of the wide reach of my little man’s recall.

If my boy can remember the park with the tall, tall man, and we haven’t stepped foot in the shade of that American giant in half of Max’s lifetime, then there are a hundred million other moments inside his subconscious waiting for their resurrection, and a multiplicity that are only marking time until their birth.

I can’t control every machination of my children’s lives, nor would I ever want to.  They will choose what to make and who to make it with.  They are with me now though, and most of their minutes are within my orbit.  I can make sure to manage what is rolling down the conveyor belt in front of me.

Writer Dad

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I’m Working on it

by Writer Dad on December 2, 2008

If you are here from Zen Habits, welcome.  You can subscribe to the feed here.  On Tuesdays, we often revisit a favorite post from the past.  Today’s Deja Vuesday takes us to the day I received a rather significant gift.

“The secret of success in life is for a man to be ready for his opportunity when it comes.”

~Benjamin Disraeli

Happy Deja Vuesday.

If there was a single instrument that has allowed my life to sound out in a different key, it is my Macbook.  I’ve never been fluid enough with my guitar for my fingers to know the strings without the constant prodding of my mind, but when my digits dance across the keys of my laptop, it’s as if they know their way independent of my brain.

Of course I’d worked on computers before, but nothing else had felt so natural.  My first purchase was shortly before Mia was born.  It aged alongside my daughter, though the years were far kinder to one than the other.  It was old before its time, and I never did much with it, save crash the hard drive and lose a broken heart’s worth of pictures.

It is certainly possible that a different line of bread crumbs would have led me here to Blogopolis anyway, but it is difficult to imagine that we would be wandering through this particular here and now if it hadn’t been for Daisy saying, “Here’s a Macbook.  Go Make Your Million.

Writer Dad

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Writer Dad in Rough Draft

by Writer Dad on December 1, 2008

If you’re here from Zen Habits, welcome. You’ve come to a special blog at a special time. Click here to subscribe, or dig through the archives. You’ll be glad you did. Thanks.

“When you aim for perfection, you discover it’s a moving target.”

~George Fisher

I began this blog to chronicle a significant shift in my family’s biography.  Daisy and I were determined to take our teaching online, and write the daylight away.   This is an undertaking that has required both our full time commitment and every ounce of collective courage.

We have closed our preschool, and are now inhaling our few final weeks.  Next year, we’re moving west.  Well not really, we’re only a handful of blocks from the lip of the Pacific now, but I feel like we are in the 1800’s, when land was cheap to anyone willing to stake a claim and start construction.

Question: How much is a domain going for these days?

Answer: Two morning’s worth of Starbucks.

Writer Dad was a rough draft, rolling along with rhythm and regularity for the last four months, but it is now ready for its first revision.

Writer Dad has been a marvelous stage to step upon; a podium for any thought I was willing to balloon into five-hundred words or so.  Behind the curtain, it has always been about my family; the legacy I leave and the stories I wish to pass.  Writer Dad focuses on fatherhood with well written tales about those things that orbit my existence, and that is what Writer Dad will continue to be.

Not having a niche is nice, and I have enjoyed it immeasurably, but it is now time to not have a niche in more than one place.

In early 2009, the first of several new stages will be set, and I will spread my voice to another venue.  Writer Dad will continue to do what it has always done, only better from the benefit of extra breath.  Writer Dad will leave the desk in favor of a favorite chair.  I will post only when I have something to say, probably around three times a week.  I plan to do a lot more with a little less, and though I still have plenty of things to chat about that have nothing to do with fatherhood, come January, I will share them elsewhere.

For December, things won’t be too different.  I look forward to sharing a few special announcements and giving you the best of the rest of the same.  The Bloggers I Heart will return at the end of the month to tell us what the holidays mean to them, and I’m trying hard to line up a guest post from Santa, but his internet has been all wonky and we can’t seem to keep our ichat connection (yes, Santa uses a Mac).  I am working on it though.

Writer Dad

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Namas Daisy is opening presence here.

{ 31 comments }

Happy Thanksgiving!

by Writer Dad on November 27, 2008

A dozen sentiments that say it better than I.  Happy Thanksgiving to all.  Remember what the holiday means, and I’ll see you on Monday.

The Pilgrims made seven times more graves than huts.  No Americans have been more impoverished than these who, nevertheless, set aside a day of thanksgiving.  ~H.U. Westermayer

If the only prayer you said in your whole life was, “thank you,” that would suffice.  ~Meister Eckhart

Thanksgiving Day is a jewel, to set in the hearts of honest men; but be careful that you do not take the day, and leave out the gratitude.  ~E.P. Powell

As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them.  ~John Fitzgerald Kennedy

Thanksgiving Day comes, by statute, once a year; to the honest man it comes as frequently as the heart of gratitude will allow.  ~Edward Sandford Martin

Thanksgiving, after all, is a word of action.  ~W.J. Cameron

Let us remember that, as much has been given us, much will be expected from us, and that true homage comes from the heart as well as from the lips, and shows itself in deeds.  ~Theodore Roosevelt

We give thanks for unknown blessings already on their way.  ~Author Unknown

A thankful heart is not only the greatest virtue, but the parent of all the other virtues.  ~Cicero

Stand up, on this Thanksgiving Day, stand upon your feet.  Believe in man.  Soberly and with clear eyes, believe in your own time and place.  There is not, and there never has been a better time, or a better place to live in.  ~Phillips Brooks

None is more impoverished than the one who has no gratitude.  Gratitude is a currency that we can mint for ourselves, and spend without fear of bankruptcy.  ~Fred De Witt Van Amburgh

Not what we say about our blessings, but how we use them, is the true measure of our thanksgiving.  ~W.T. Purkiser

Writer Dad

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Pen and Ink

by Writer Dad on November 26, 2008

I’m sprinkling a few hints about the future over at Up and Coming Blogger.  You can get it here.

We’re almost at that time of year, when time and money disappear.

Days are short and nights are long, filling with familiar song.

Reds and greens, and snowy whites, dancing under festive lights.

Dave and I exchanged some chat, rapping about just where we’re at.

We both agree that gifts are grand, but a perfect present should be planned.

Santa’s sack just spills with stuff (as though we don’t all have enough).

So much of it so much the same, you could probably rearrange the names.

When everything is assembly line, what’s the difference, hers and mine?

That’s when the light bulb made a ding, and we heard a new idea sing.

If you find yourself a bit adrift while searching for a perfect gift,

Then Dave and I can lend our skill, combine our minds, create a thrill.

You can email us a few fun facts, then sip some nog and just relax.

We’ll curl your info into art, fully unique and bursting with heart.

Dave will draw and I will write.  Then we’ll send the file to your delight.

Our custom art is now yours for good.  You could have it framed (we think you should).

You could dangle the drawing from every door, because that file lasts forevermore.

I feel you thinking, “Well gee, how much, for all those words and art and such?”

Get ready now for our super surprise.  Lower your jaw and widen your eyes.

Our collective inkwell brings you art - singular, special, and bursting with heart.

Pooling together preeminent skills, starting at fifty one dollar bills.

Contact us now if you would like to reserve, the singular gift that you know they deserve.

Sooner is better, there’s limited space, and surely you don’t want a frown on your face.

Fill in the form and then we can get started, devising a gift that is sure to be hearted.

Give your someone special a gift that they will remember forever.  Order a custom piece of art that includes unique prose and a one of a kind drawing.  Prices start at $50 (a bit more if you would like a hard copy printed and sent in the mail).  Gifts will be written and drawn on a first come first served basis.  Contact us today and let’s get the jingle bells jingling.

My Fieldset
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The Sweetheart of Blogopolis

by Writer Dad on November 25, 2008

“It’s your heart, not the dictionary, that gives meaning to your words.  A good person produces good deeds and words season after season.  An evil person is a blight on the orchard.  Let me tell you something: every one of these careless words is going to come back to haunt you.  There will be a time of Reckoning.  Words are powerful; take them seriously.  Words can be your salvation.  Words can also be your damnation.”

~ Jesus

Jamie Simmerman should be the sweetheart of Blogopolis.  She is kind, funny, and always pays toward the interest of others.  She is also honest, and even if she thinks you’re awesome, is never shy to tell you how she thinks you could be even awesomer.

Except that Jamie would never use a word like awesomer.  She runs Blue Duck Copy, a Christian company, specializing in SEO content creation and blog management.  Jamie knows her stuff, and clarified more basic writing tools for me in a single, rather brief email, than any teacher I’ve ever had.  Here’s what Jamie said about the semi-colon.

Semicolons, (this thing ; ) are used similar to an equals sign (this thing =).  Both halves say the same thing, in different ways.  Doing it right makes editors do this thing:  : )

Crystal clear.

Enjoy Jamie Simmerman, the sweetheart of Blogopolis:

What a Vacuum Hickey Can Teach You

I am not very mechanically inclined, but I do all right. I can hook up and program the DVD player as well as troubleshoot small appliances when they go wacky.

I have a love/hate relationship with my vacuum. It seems we generate an abnormally large amount of dirt and debris here on the farm, because I am constantly unclogging the suction hoses on sweepers.

Vacuum Colonoscopy

We have a routine around here that requires sticking long objects up various parts of the sweeper to remove unmentionable balls of disgust. I have done this so many times that my oldest son now knows when I sit down on the floor and turn the vacuum over, he’s to fetch the supplies for the vacuum’s *colonoscopy*. Life on a farm is great.

Attack of the Ladies

The joys of living in a 200 year-old house are unique. If sweeper-killing mountains of dirt were not enough, we also have a problem with ladybugs. Every time the temperature fluctuates, the ladybugs come out in droves. They flock to the warmest side of the house, where the bedrooms are. They crawl along the seams where the ceiling meets the wall; they crowd into corners, and kamikaze the TV (and my snoring husband). Eventually, they land on the floor in a stupor and die.

It was time to vacuum.

All Grown Up

Feeling quite every bit of his eight years, my son announced he could handle the stinky bugs and wanted to have a go at it because, evidently, that kind of stuff is cool to an eight-year-old boy. I gladly handed over the hose and began folding laundry.

After a few minutes, the vacuum began to sound strange.

Being the mechanical genius that I am, I reached over and knocked the vacuum around a little. It resumed its more pleasant humming and we went back to our cleaning. A couple of minutes passed and I heard the same strange noise coming from the vacuum again. I reached over and shut the machine off, preparing for another vacuum colonoscopy.

I looked at the boy to ask him if he was ready to help and I noticed a mischievous grin on his little face.

“What?” I asked slowly.

“Nuttin’ ” came the sly reply. Then the giggling began and I knew something was up.

“What!” I yelled through my own giggles. He lifted his shirt and smiled big.

Are You Insane?

He removed the vacuum hose, revealing a big round red spot on his belly. “Ah!” I cried, “What’s wrong with you, are you insane?” He grinned big, “Probably, I’m your kid!”

I gave him a swat with the pillow from the bed and asked him what he thought he was doing. He explained that a ladybug flew down his shirt and the vacuum tickles. Huh, perfectly logical.

I picked him up and gave him my best bear hug until he yelled for backup from baby brother. We wrestled on the floor, getting ladybugs stuck in our hair.

Little moments like this remind me of how great being a mother really is, and just how precious children are.

Now I just have to figure out how to explain the vacuum cleaner hickey to my husband…

You can subscribe to Jamie’s feed here.

Writer Dad

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{ 23 comments }

Happy Birthday, Pop

by Writer Dad on November 24, 2008

“He didn’t tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it.”

~Clarence Budington Kelland

Here’s a happiest birthday to my father, my Pop.  Let’s all celebrate, starting here at the top.

For twenty-eight years his flower boutique, has filled aisles with flowers, each single week.

When I was first sprouting some hair on my face, my father inquired if I’d share in the space.

So I did, then came up, amid all those stems, and maybe a billion, blossoming gems.

One dozen years, shared near every dawn.  Two cups of coffee, for Pop and for Sean.

Wonder years for sure, me growing up, leaving a dog when I started a pup.

My father is as tender as an old teddy bear.  He’s hard to describe, so let me compare.

You know in that western when Wayne’s had enough, and he swaggers all sturdy, tenacious, and tough?

He says what needs saying, then sets off a cure, for disease that leaves loved ones feeling unsure.

My dad lays it down like a Clint or McQueen, scored by Leone and soaked in caffeine.

Shot like a classic, as wide as it gets, cooler than Luke, without cigarettes.

Just like those heroes, he’s blazing inside, with a taciturn tender he’s trying to hide.

Most never know it, but some of us see.  I happen to know, parts are inside of me.

I value your time, so I won’t keep you long, but a couple more things since I’m singing this song.

I’m gonna reach in my soul, pull a bit of it out, rinse it with words, then write it all out.

Here are three things that make me a good dad, learned from my Pop that I’m glad that he had.

He started me early at stoking my smarts, by finding a school that was off of the charts.

He always made sure that our family felt shielded with an intrepid and unafraid walk that he wielded.

He taught me hard work; how to rise before light; trade a satisfied day for a satisfied night.

Happy birthday Pop, you’ve another year earned.  Thanks for all that you gave me, and all that I learned.

Being eleventy is awesome, at least so I hear.  Here’s to this next one becoming your preeminent year.

Writer Dad

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{ 28 comments }

Redbook… an Excerpt Part Duex

by Writer Dad on November 21, 2008

“Yesterday should have stayed put.  Now it was too late.”

~ Conner Quick

The RedBook wasn’t a book at all.  It was a vintage notebook computer, designed to look like a leftover from the early twenties.  It held 50 Terabytes of top secret government design, spanning everything from ten years back to the entire crop currently on the Facility’s drawing board; blueprint to prototype.

You’re probably wondering why anyone would lay that kind of trust in the hands of a fifteen year old kid, but the answer is simple: half the prototypes were either designed by Conner himself, or someone directly beneath his wing.  The few designs that weren’t, served as practical reference for the hundred or so projects hovering in various stages of production.  If Conner could be trusted with most of it, then Conner could be trusted with all of it.

Whatever the thieves were planning, it could easily affect the entire globe.  If they didn’t attempt to cripple the government with ransom, it was probably because they wanted it leveled.  About near anything in the RedBook could be tweaked toward the nefarious.

The Memory Wipe came first to Conner’s mind.  The MW1 was counterpart to the Facility’s earlier Memory Bank.  The Wipe was originally designed to extract traumatic recall from the victims of violent crimes, but in theory could be used for anything, perhaps causing a victim to forget who they were, or where there allegiance lay.  A bead of sweat made a mostly neat line down Conner’s face.  He wiped it absently and thought about the EverGrow.  The research was remarkable, but it was in a precarious part of its development cycle to turn up AWOL.  Half a dozen drops of the green, icy liquid could germinate a wheat field the size of San Fransisco.  Twice that and the land would go fallow for a hundred years, if not two.

Anything was possible, but there was a single file inside the notebook that meant more to Conner than all the others put together.  If someone had managed the unimaginable, Conner was certain, it was the only thing they really wanted.

The Molecule Regenerator was Conner’s blueprint, a brainchild that would bounce the whole big blue spinning orb right into the next eon.  Even stuck in the purgatory of Phase 1 Development (where it had lingered for over a year) the Regenerator was arguably the most significant invention the world had seen since fire.

Acid licked the lining of Conner’s stomach.  He felt like he’d devoured two pounds of uncooked sausage, then chased the raw meat with an antique can of Spaghettios.  He collapsed in the chair and stared out the window.

The Molecule Regenerator had never advanced to the second stage of testing, though the theories were solid and framework sound.  The Facility forecast that they would have a working prototype within the year, and commercial availability in under three.  Within half a decade, everybody in Newmerica would own one.  Only a few months after that, and the whole world would be wondering how they ever went without.

The possibilities were endless; a virtual fax for physical objects.  The instrument, once complete, could gather the atoms of any living creature or inanimate object, condense them to their tenth exponent of miniaturization, then store them inside an alloy nano-bucket.  The bucket would then send the atoms swirling through the atmosphere to specified coordinates anywhere on the international map.  A second Regenerator wasn’t even needed.

In a decade, it would be the standard for transfer of goods or information, the manner in which people moved, whether commute or vacation.  It would be one of those innovations, like the first horseless carriage or telephone, that shoved one epoch into the next.  It would render the wheel and movable type about as minor as a one armed monkey.

Of course that was theory.  In practice, the device still had a huge hurdle to hop.  Despite a year of research, the alloy bucket simply would not work.  The current blend of metals showed promise, but were still a long light year from acceptable.  As it stood, the Regenerator would swallow the atoms, but only spit a mutation.  The atoms gathered in the bucket just fine, but a fraction would never leave.  The ones that did were somehow altered.  A successful transfer had yet to be made.

A broken shipment from everything.web was one thing, half a grandma knocking on the door for Thanksgiving Dinner was another altogether.

Whoever the highwaymen, and whatever their intentions, the world was at risk and the Facility its finest hope.  Conner had less than eight hours to gather his team and get them to the bottom of the Grand Canyon with a plan in place.  That included Jessie and Gina, both overseas on assignment in The Union of Asian Republics.

No one could be spared for this mission.  If he was a suspect, Conner thought, than so was everyone else.

Writer Dad

If you enjoyed these words, please subscribe (for free) by RSS or Email.  I tweet here, and Stumble here.  If you’d like to hire me, you can do that here.  Thanks.

Corey Allan, the author of Simple Marriage dot net has started a new blog callet Parent to Launch dot com.  You can discover it here.

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Oktober High-Five

by Writer Dad on November 20, 2008

Oktober 5 is a bit of a mystery.  We don’t know his name, or even the meaning behind his moniker.  This matters not at all.  Few things hold as much gravity as the wisdom in our words, and in that, Oktober has no shortage.  His posts are peerless, each one perfectly pithy.

I’ve encountered no one else online who brandishes brevity as he.  Sometimes, there are no words, only a photograph worth a throw’s more than a thousand.  You can subscribe to his feed here.  Please enjoy his words below.

Oktober 5

At Least My Writing Understands Me

One of the most frustrating things in life is not being understood, or worse yet, being misunderstood. This feeling is often expressed in the words of your typical angst-ridden teen to his parents, “You don’t know me!” It’s true, we don’t know you because you don’t know yourself.

I’m clearly not a parent of an angst-ridden teen; I’m not middle-aged, balding, nor losing my mind. I am, however, the proud parent of a very misunderstood one-year-old boy. Despite his precocious attitude, he fails to realize that his ceaseless grunts and screams don’t translate directly into “I’m hungry” or “I want to go outside” or “I soiled myself and it’s about to leak out all over the place so please change me now.”

Believe me, such misunderstandings have had disastrous consequences. But there is hope. One-year-old boys grow up and teenagers discover themselves. And writers write. We all come to know ourselves.

WriterDad.com has an envious tag line: Life’s better with the right words. Our world is constantly defining itself with words. Even our feelings are being translated into drinkable quantities. The right words help us to be understood, which not only avoids misunderstandings and dirty diaper accidents, but teaches us something about ourselves.

Who better to critique us than our own writing? After all, it knows us best; it is us. Truly, writing is a reflection of us no matter how hard we may try to put forth our best self. When the emails have stopped coming, when twitter-land is quiet, when friends have exhausted their praise, then you are left with something that understands you and speaks to you in a way no other can.

Just as when you look in the mirror you’re the only one looking back, so too when you write your words you’re the only one to account for them. Make them good. Make them passionate. If you find the right words, you’ll find yourself, and there is no better feeling than knowing and controlling one’s self.

Writer Dad

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