If they were all added up. I wonder how many people I've interviewed in my career. How many people's stories I've collected. How many quotes I've selected.
You'd think it would all boil down to a formula, but it doesn't. Everyone is different; everyone's story is unique.
These days I do a few interviews in person each week, a few others by phone, and a few others by email. The author interviews I do for Smashwords, the big ebook distributor, start with a phone interview, followed by a Q&A in email.
That way, there's no need to take notes or use a recorder, nor are there any worries about misquoting someone.
Still, even when the structure of an interview falls into a familiar pattern, because you are having a similar conversation to others about similar topics or ideas, the unique ways people see the world and tell their stories, reshapes even familiar territory into the new and wondrous.
That's why I like being a journalist, always finding out new things, always challenging my own assumptions. Being exposed to multiple perspectives on all kinds of things keeps me from falling into a rut of unexamined thinking, or descending into the echo chamber of group-think.
At least I hope it does.
***
My modest ebook appears to be selling modestly. I'm told it always starts like this. If that book is to ever go viral, it will be due to some precipitating event somewhere in the digital world that probably will have little to do with me, the author.
The book is available for the Kindle, the Nook, and simple PDFs for desktops and laptops; perhaps it's in other formats as well. I don't know. It wasn't a self-published book. Hyperink published it for me.
In that way I have not yet entered the world of self-publishing -- something so disrespected in the past it was dismissed as "vanity" publishing.
No longer. the stigma is gone. The folks I interview who've authored ebooks are making tens of thousands of dollars every quarter, and for a writer, that is some serious cash.
***
It might seem to some that the interviews I used to do, including of famous and prominent people, for bigger publications like Rolling Stone or Salon about weighty topics might have been more important types of work than my current short blog profiles of startups or ebook authors.
I don't see it that way. A person's story is their story, whether they are powerful or unknown, whether the narrative seems complex or relatively simple.
There's nothing simple about a life -- any life.
It's an honor when someone lets you in on their dreams, their hopes, and their fears. To be entrusted at whatever level with the opportunity to write about someone else is a feeling I never get tired of, and try to never abuse.
As journalists, we tell other peoples' stories; often they will never get to do that for themselves.
Every keystroke is like the beating of a heart. The rhythm of life, emerging in words, joining other words into a river of narrative.
Good or bad, nice or mean, dead or alive, the lives have mattered, and those of us who've witnessed them have an obligation to history to try and get these stories right.
Every time I post a new piece online, which averages around once a day, I hope that I got it right. Nothing bothers me more than hearing I made a mistake -- luckily these usually are minor and can be easily corrected, bu they still bother me enormously.
I'm not here to make mistakes, even if to err is human. I'm here to get it right.
***
Word reached me this week that an old friend is in the hospital after a heart attack. I haven't seen him in probably 14 years, but when our kids were young, our families were close, and we took a number of camping trips together.
One of my sisters also had to have an operation this week to repair a badly injured wrist after a fall.
These are reminders that age catches up with all of us.
***
I love Friday nights because the teens are here, and we make a nice night of it together, especially when they stay home, as they did tonight, rather than go out on their own on the town.
My daughter is back practicing soccer, now at the club level, and she will be playing in a tournament soon down at Stanford. I'm really proud of how she is sticking with the game, at an age when most girls abandon it.
She's a competitor at heart, though not excessively so. I can see that what motivates her is not so much being better than others as being part of a team that beats other teams.
There is a difference here and it is not subtle. Collective success as opposed to strictly individual success. I write a lot about team sports. I think they are good at building citizens.
As a society, we should be deeply concerned about creating good citizens -- people who understand what democracy is and care about preserving it, or at least the underlying tenets that imply equality, freedom, and compassion for all.
There are many dark forces in the world, and in this country, that would suppress these values. There are many misguided and uninformed voices demonizing those who hold different views or values.
It's troubling, but not necessarily fatal to our particular form of democracy. The context, for me, is this American system is imperfect. Its many flaws require civic engagement on many levels.
In the end, this large country is still a work in progress. I'm finding this election year the most boring in memory, but that doesn't mean I don't have opinions or views about how it should all turn out.
I'll probably slowly start writing more political posts here in the weeks t come, now Romney has reportedly chosen Paul Ryan as his V-P candidate, so the tickets are clear.
-30-
Friday, August 10, 2012
Tuesday, August 07, 2012
This is What is Wonderful
Last time I posted here was a time of agitation. Two nights later is a relaxed moment. It's a time like this one that I love life -- not something you normally hear me say.
But I enjoyed cooking dinner for the kids after an enjoyable conference call with two business partners I like at the conclusion of a day with the right amount of work and conversations with enough friends as to not feel isolated in the world.
Locating the balance, for me, can be difficult but is critical.
My soccer player son is coaching young immigrant kids in Oakland this week, volunteering with an organization trying to use the sport to help them get acclimated to this country. He is working with the youngest kids (as young as three!) and says it is hard work, which I'm sure it is.
He doesn't complain about it. He napped when he came home after it this afternoon, then walked to the gym and back for his usual one-hour workout.
His little brother walks dogs and earns money that way. He came over and ate a massive amount of the pasta I cooked -- for such a slender if tall fellow, he eats more food than anyone else around here, easily two or three times the amount I consume, though I'm not a big eater.
I've moderated my diet over the years to the point I prefer small portions and my weight is around 25 pounds less than it was in the recent past. I feel better this way.
My daughter got out of her long day as a junior counselor at the SPCA and I drove her to her club soccer practice. Again, she was tired but she didn't complain about any of it; she seems committed to moving to the next level and working hard at the sport, following the example of her brother-coach.
Her competitive streak is something I've slowly come to appreciate as one of her hidden virtues.
The two athletes simply don't complain much, a theme of this post, and I don't know why. Maybe pushing their bodies constantly releases endorphins or other substances that make them more at ease with the world?
By contrast, my dog-walker and I are both prone to moods where we complain a lot. We're the sedentary types, usually prone in front of screens or books of one type or another, and rarely interested in going outdoors just for the sake of doing so.
By volunteering in Oakland, the 17-year-old is mastering Bart, our regional subway system, finally. He has not had much confidence is how to navigate his way around this complicated metropolitan area on public transit at times, but now he is gaining that confidence, commuting to and from the Fruitvale District daily.
His "little" brother, by contrast, is exceptionally good at figuring out bus and train routes and getting himself here and there, rarely if ever asking for help.
My youngest has not yet had much experience in this regard, but that will probably start this fall with taking buses with her friends to soccer practices. Again, soccer is the great educator here, the great motivation to get out in the world and learn about it.
Given her artistic tendencies and talents, she will likely always spend time alone, pursuing her dreams, so being able to become self-sufficient and confident out in the world beyond her studio and home will be a big part of her finding the right balances in life.
As an old man, I think about these things endlessly. I have no choice but to envision their world without me in it. The inevitability of that outcome gives urgency to these musings.
In that way, this is not another innocent journal post, by a single Dad, writing about his family. There is nothing romantic or nostalgic or arrogant here, I hope. It is a modest conversation, the words flowing as easily as the bubbly water, cranberry juice or lemonade the kids and I all drank at dinner.
I'm just happy to be alive, happy to be a father, and happy to be able to relate small progress here and there, as I observe my children growing toward adulthood.
Last time I posted, I was filled with anxiety. This time, I am at peace.
-30-
But I enjoyed cooking dinner for the kids after an enjoyable conference call with two business partners I like at the conclusion of a day with the right amount of work and conversations with enough friends as to not feel isolated in the world.
Locating the balance, for me, can be difficult but is critical.
My soccer player son is coaching young immigrant kids in Oakland this week, volunteering with an organization trying to use the sport to help them get acclimated to this country. He is working with the youngest kids (as young as three!) and says it is hard work, which I'm sure it is.
He doesn't complain about it. He napped when he came home after it this afternoon, then walked to the gym and back for his usual one-hour workout.
His little brother walks dogs and earns money that way. He came over and ate a massive amount of the pasta I cooked -- for such a slender if tall fellow, he eats more food than anyone else around here, easily two or three times the amount I consume, though I'm not a big eater.
I've moderated my diet over the years to the point I prefer small portions and my weight is around 25 pounds less than it was in the recent past. I feel better this way.
My daughter got out of her long day as a junior counselor at the SPCA and I drove her to her club soccer practice. Again, she was tired but she didn't complain about any of it; she seems committed to moving to the next level and working hard at the sport, following the example of her brother-coach.
Her competitive streak is something I've slowly come to appreciate as one of her hidden virtues.
The two athletes simply don't complain much, a theme of this post, and I don't know why. Maybe pushing their bodies constantly releases endorphins or other substances that make them more at ease with the world?
By contrast, my dog-walker and I are both prone to moods where we complain a lot. We're the sedentary types, usually prone in front of screens or books of one type or another, and rarely interested in going outdoors just for the sake of doing so.
By volunteering in Oakland, the 17-year-old is mastering Bart, our regional subway system, finally. He has not had much confidence is how to navigate his way around this complicated metropolitan area on public transit at times, but now he is gaining that confidence, commuting to and from the Fruitvale District daily.
His "little" brother, by contrast, is exceptionally good at figuring out bus and train routes and getting himself here and there, rarely if ever asking for help.
My youngest has not yet had much experience in this regard, but that will probably start this fall with taking buses with her friends to soccer practices. Again, soccer is the great educator here, the great motivation to get out in the world and learn about it.
Given her artistic tendencies and talents, she will likely always spend time alone, pursuing her dreams, so being able to become self-sufficient and confident out in the world beyond her studio and home will be a big part of her finding the right balances in life.
As an old man, I think about these things endlessly. I have no choice but to envision their world without me in it. The inevitability of that outcome gives urgency to these musings.
In that way, this is not another innocent journal post, by a single Dad, writing about his family. There is nothing romantic or nostalgic or arrogant here, I hope. It is a modest conversation, the words flowing as easily as the bubbly water, cranberry juice or lemonade the kids and I all drank at dinner.
I'm just happy to be alive, happy to be a father, and happy to be able to relate small progress here and there, as I observe my children growing toward adulthood.
Last time I posted, I was filled with anxiety. This time, I am at peace.
-30-
Sunday, August 05, 2012
This is What Sucks
Although most of the time I celebrate the joy of being a parent, it's often not easy, and sometimes quite difficult. On occasions, it is one of the most frustrating jobs in the world.
Right up there alongside being a co-parent with an ex-partner.
There really is no glamor in being a divorced Dad. Right from the start, 50 percent of the population assumes at least on some level that you are to blame for the breakup of your marriage.
Then, on your own, as you try to establish a household with some sort of order and coherence, so that when your kids visit they are in a "stable" environment, you face all sorts of logistical issues.
You usually need to learn how to cook, how to clean, how to handle the laundry, how to shop, how to help manage their social lives, and supervise their schooling.
After all, you've always previously been away at your job, providing for the family, not being the main adult in the family.
Starting nine years ago, already at a very ripe age, I assumed this new position, and I've struggled all of those years, trying to make it work.
Tonight, I feel like I've failed.
The details don't really matter. It's just kids being kids, doing what they're programmed to do at these ages, but I'm starting to think I may just have become too old for this work.
What they need to do at their age and what I need to do at my age are out of sync, sadly.
This job feels overwhelming at times like this.
I don't know how to keep going on. My ex-partner criticizes me at every turn, battering what's left of my self-esteem. She makes it seem that I give in to them too often, but what is that all about? No matter what I do or try to do, it is always wrong, in her eyes.
And probably in 50 percent of all the eyes out there. Women are like that -- very good at always blaming the man.
Meanwhile, the special dinner I cooked for the kids tonight sits cold in the kitchen. The teens are out on the town, unaccounted for, "playing basketball," supposedly.
Their Dad is very, very tired.
And the few partners I thought I had these past nine years, who might have been here with me on a night like this, have flown to the winds. Good for them. They got away from this hell. So it's just me and that God-damned mockingbird, which mimics car alarms, outside my window tomorrow morning.
This is what sucks. That fucking bird. I think I'll get out my shotgun and make it shut up one of these mornings soon. A few of my neighbors would agree and also be grateful.
Kill the mockingbird!
-30-
p.s. Not really.
Right up there alongside being a co-parent with an ex-partner.
There really is no glamor in being a divorced Dad. Right from the start, 50 percent of the population assumes at least on some level that you are to blame for the breakup of your marriage.
Then, on your own, as you try to establish a household with some sort of order and coherence, so that when your kids visit they are in a "stable" environment, you face all sorts of logistical issues.
You usually need to learn how to cook, how to clean, how to handle the laundry, how to shop, how to help manage their social lives, and supervise their schooling.
After all, you've always previously been away at your job, providing for the family, not being the main adult in the family.
Starting nine years ago, already at a very ripe age, I assumed this new position, and I've struggled all of those years, trying to make it work.
Tonight, I feel like I've failed.
The details don't really matter. It's just kids being kids, doing what they're programmed to do at these ages, but I'm starting to think I may just have become too old for this work.
What they need to do at their age and what I need to do at my age are out of sync, sadly.
This job feels overwhelming at times like this.
I don't know how to keep going on. My ex-partner criticizes me at every turn, battering what's left of my self-esteem. She makes it seem that I give in to them too often, but what is that all about? No matter what I do or try to do, it is always wrong, in her eyes.
And probably in 50 percent of all the eyes out there. Women are like that -- very good at always blaming the man.
Meanwhile, the special dinner I cooked for the kids tonight sits cold in the kitchen. The teens are out on the town, unaccounted for, "playing basketball," supposedly.
Their Dad is very, very tired.
And the few partners I thought I had these past nine years, who might have been here with me on a night like this, have flown to the winds. Good for them. They got away from this hell. So it's just me and that God-damned mockingbird, which mimics car alarms, outside my window tomorrow morning.
This is what sucks. That fucking bird. I think I'll get out my shotgun and make it shut up one of these mornings soon. A few of my neighbors would agree and also be grateful.
Kill the mockingbird!
-30-
p.s. Not really.
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