August 31, 2006
Afternoon
I’m really not living up to the every day thing. I want to get to 50 pages, pretty bad, by the time you’re born, but I’m not doing so hot.
I’ve been thinking of my past a lot lately. That makes me wonder about authenticity. Authenticity is a funny thing. You want to stay true to yourself, whatever inner voice tells you who you are-but you don’t want to disturb other people. “Keeping it real” is one phrase we have for it these days.
Tom Cruise(have you ever heard of him?), who is a fairly famous movie star, just got fired because he is a member of a creepy pseudo religious group, Scientology. I’m sure he firmly believes in it, but the problem comes in when he spends his time criticizes the choices and motivations and real, legitimate medical problems of other people.
I don’t feel very authentic. I think I let down the person I was 15 years ago. I didn’t take up writing the way I wanted to, and I didn’t pursue something that I loved. I just survived, and I’m doing something that pays very well, but I hate every minute of doing it.
“That was Danny’s style, one of many he’d had over the years. At the beginning he’d thought of his style as being his essence, the perfect expression of who he was inside, but lately the styles had started to feel like disguises, distractions Danny could move around behind without being seen.”
-Jennifer Egan, “The Keep”
That’s the book I just started. Someone posted an entry on the Huffington Post web site about how good it was, so I picked it up at the library tonight.
That’s the thing about the image we present to the world. There’s a quote from another book that goes something like “We become who we pretend to be, so we must be careful who we pretend to be.” Be honest, but be realistic as well. Too much honesty, and you can injure people.
I try not to injure anyone. As much as I possibly can.
Maybe that’s being fake, I don’t know.

September 10, 2006
Afternoon
Has it been a month since I started writing? I guess it has. It’s not looking good in terms of finishing. I would hate to write all this and put it away and never show it to anyone. At the same time, what good is it? What’s it for?
A long time ago, a friend of mine asked me how it was that literature scholars know what it was the author “meant” by phrase A or symbol B or story C. I could never answer his question.
Really, what he’s asking is, what are books for? What are stories for? Is it just some stuff that we are pretending happened to some people? Is it just for entertainment’s sake, in which case we should discard any book we’re not enjoying? Am I a snob for believing that some books or movies are better than other books and movies? Or is there such a thing as quality?
Robert Pirsig’s books, “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” and “Lila”, try to answer these questions. I’m not sure, obviously, how old you are now, but they are fantastic at almost any age.
I can’t answer those questions.
I think books are to help us cope with being human. Being human is hard, boring, lonely work, and it sometimes seems like Aunt Debbie and I are the only two people who understand that.
It is Rick’s first day of school tomorrow. We took him to a Middle School Orientation on Friday. It was hard for me, talking to people who are supposed to be my peers, and I feel completely inferior to them. I feel like they get it, they know how to be adults, and somehow I don’t.
And it is completely unacceptable for adults to speak about this insecurity, however.


April 4, 2007
Simon,
“This is the story of how we begin to remember-
This is the powerful pulsing of love in the vein-“
Paul Simon, “Under African Skies”.
From 1987’s Graceland album. I thought everyone bought that album, but your Aunt Debbie reminded me that it was mostly just white people. Apparently.
Well, you’re here. After waiting and waiting and waiting..probably much too long, according to your Mom, you have now joined the rest of us here on planet Earth.
Welcome.
It’s not a bad planet. I guess. The only one I’ve ever been to. There are a lot of funny rules. You’ll learn them as you go along, I suppose.
This whole project was a good idea, I keep telling myself, but after a burst of writing shortly after you were conceived, it fell apart on me. My fault, partially, of course-I didn’t force myself to sit down every day and do it. I mean, there has to be something to note every day, right?
I’m sitting in a Starbucks, waiting for an appointment to get an oil change. I could have gone home after dropping cousin Rick at school, but I didn’t. I secretly like being alone like this-hiding out. Ironically, hiding in plain sight.
Aunt Debbie is going to go and see you again today. Not surprising. She says you’re cute, of course, but what else would you expect people to say? I’m sure it’s true.
I’m drinking coffee, which I don’t usually do. It’s not really coffee-its chocolatey and creamy-a White Chocolate Mocha. I don’t even like the taste of coffee, I just like the taste of chocolate and stuff.
Who doesn’t?
I think I’m going to post this on my blog. I am increasingly sure that I am not going to publish this. Other than that. Maybe you’ll never see it. Maybe nobody will.
You have a name now. Simon William. A deeply cool name. If I could get on the internet here without having to pay, I could tell you who else was born on your birthday. Other than your grandmother and your Aunt Debbie. But I’m too cheap to pay to get on the Internet. I suppose I could go over to the library, where access is free, and drink my coffee there instead.
“Don’t let the bastards grind you down.”
-U2, “Acrobat”