In late 2022, I got a DM from an editor at a publishing company. She was wondering if I’d be interested in writing a book.
FINALLY! I’d been waiting for that message for years. Yes, I wanted to write a book!
Not enough to write the book first and then write a proposal about the book (think cover letter only 1000 times longer) and then pitch said proposal about said book to countless agents and publishers in the hopes that someone might give it a shot, but I definitely enough to accept her offer!
So last year, amid months of procrastination and revisions and self-doubt and more procrastination and even more self-doubt, I wrote a book. And last week, my book arrived!
Like, literally arrived, in a box. It’s real! And it’s spectacular!
I hope; I’m still waiting to find out what the world thinks. I’ll find out in two weeks, when Dad Truths hits stores on April 2nd.
This is my first book, but I’ve been writing for decades. And not just in my diary.
(I don’t have a diary.)
(This is my diary.)
I’ve written for school newspapers and online magazines, for company websites and personal blogs, for famous corporations and small-town rags, for parenting portals and pop culture hubs, on the Huffington Post and Scary Mommy and The Dad.
One time I was even in Cosmo! Sometimes I even get paid!
My day job is about 75% writing, my freelance work (I’m available!) is entirely writing, and my hobby— if you want to call a social media empire, thriving Substack newsletter, and awkward TikTok videos a hobby! —is built around writing. I even met Mom and Buried through writing.
And yet I never call myself a writer. Ever. I’ll happily use the verb (“I write…”), but I never use the noun. Despite all the writing I’ve done and continue to do, I’ve always hesitated to use the title of “writer” to describe myself.
But now that I have a published book, I’ll… still hesitate.
Why? Imposter syndrome, limited success, a lack of awards and prizes; all sorts of reasons, silly! Maybe if Dad Truths is a best-seller (help!!) or wins a Pulitzer (fingers crossed!) I’ll actually say so.
But who needs a Pulitzer when you have kids?
My kids are proud of me. They couldn’t wait to open the box of books, which we did over the weekend, and they’re excited to see the book in stores and in the library and on Kindle.
If only they’d paid for their copies, the little freeloaders!
(Just kidding. They don’t have to pay. They’ve literally never paid for a single thing in their entire lives, why start now? Besides, without them, I’d have no material, and writing a book about being a dad would be really suspect. I guess it’s an even trade.)
They haven’t read it yet (we’ll see how proud my teenager is when he gets to the part about fishing a penny out of his poop) but they think it’s cool that their dad is a writer—even if their dad doesn’t think of himself that way.
According to them, I am one. Maybe one day I’ll actually feel like one.
Probably after my second book.
Social Media Round-up
I’ve Made a Huge Mistake
For the past year, my youngest has been obsessed with football. He’s been all-in on the sport in every way possible, watching games (and highlights on YouTube), playing Madden, and constantly, and I mean constantly, asking me to throw the ball around with him. Given that I am a big football fan myself, and my 13yo despises sports in all forms, it’s been a lot of fun to share it with one of my kids.
If nothing else, Mom and Buried and I are thrilled with all the exercise The Hammer is getting playing catch and organizing chaotic, is-this-even-football pickup games at recess, and we’re indulging his interest by signing him up for flag football. Last fall he had a blast playing on his first team, and in February we signed him up for a spring program that focuses on learning the sport and practicing specific skills. He can’t wait, and I’m excited to watch him play some more without having to ice my arm afterwards.
I was excited, that is, until his coach sent the schedule last night. For the next 8 Sundays, I have to get up and take my kid to flag football at 8am in the morning. No, wait, he has to be there at 8, I have to drag myself out of bed at 7. FML!
This is why we can’t have nice things. Actually, this is why my son can’t have nice things because there ain’t no way he’s going to that! (Just kidding, I’m definitely going to take him. But I don’t have to be happy about it!)
Am I crazy or is this crazy? I get two measly days all week when I can sleep past 7am, and along comes my son and his passion for football and this insane coach and his stupid league to rob me of one of them.
I am sure the coach and the league and whomever else is in charge have good reasons for destroying my life but I can’t possibly imagine what they could be. And since I can’t deprive my son of something he’s really looking forward to, I’m just going to have to suck it up and sit on the sidelines and seethe with anger while my kid has the time of my life.
Because that’s what parents do.
God we’re stupid.
Also, this is my life right now: "write the book first and then write a proposal about the book (think cover letter only 1000 times longer) and then pitch said proposal about said book to countless agents and publishers in the hopes that someone might give it a shot." I don't even want to tell you how long and painful the process is. 🙈
Okay, then what do you say when people ask what you do??