Matt Ziselman's Blog

Just a quick message to let you guys know, that you can download a FREE Kindle version of SUNBURNED AND CIRCUMCISED. This offer ends 12a.m. PST Sunday, November 13th so don’t wait. And, let’s be honest, after the last couple of days it might not be a bad idea to read something that doesn’t involve the “T” word. http://a.co/gWEpTET

After numerous bouts of nausea, labor that was anything but false, and a far-from-easy delivery, my long gestating second book has finally arrived.

Sunburned and Circumcised is the story about when my family spent eight weeks during the summer of 1972, at the Highland Park Bungalow Colony in New York’s Catskills Mountains. It’s about a place that exists only in my memory, and a time when “Laptop” referred to the top of your thighs, and “Tweets” came courtesy of feathered creatures we called birds.

For those of you who enjoyed my first book, Hounded I hope you’ll enjoy this one too. Although, I should be clear that there are no Dachshunds in this book. In fact, the closest I get to even mentioning a dog is a chapter on the finer aspects of collecting salamanders.

Sunburned and Circumcised is available for pre-order as an e-book on Amazon (with paperback soon-to-follow). It goes on sale November 1st.

No, that’s not it. But it does reinforce how important a cover is. That image still makes my stomach tingle and not in a good way. They give you a sense of what the book is about, when and where the story takes place, if it’s going to be serious, silly or a combination of both. In other words, designing a great book cover is a hard thing to do. It has a lot of business to take care of. Which is why I’m so happy, and more than a little relieved to announce that the cover for my second book is done – and I love it! Thank you, Courtney Lopes. Not only do I think the cover captures the essence of the story, it makes it feel very real. That my little story is going to go out into the big, cold, critical world armed with nothing more than a short description and an earnest desire to be liked, maybe even loved. That’s a scary feeling. I felt the exact same way when Hounded came out in 2013. But that’s the nature of the beast. I’m certainly not the first to state the obvious: writing is neither for the faint of heart nor the easily bruised. You write, and rewrite, and doubt and rewrite and doubt some more. And then one day you open your email and see that your book has a face. An open, inviting, dramatic, funny, imaginative, eye-catching, face. And I can’t wait to share it with you. Soon.

And the story that goes with it.

I wish I could tell you I was really busy. That I was deeply involved in building some low income housing. Or that I was stuck under a remarkably heavy boulder. Because the truth is as dull as dishwater: I was lazy. I could generate neither the energy nor the incentive to sit down and write a blog post, not even a half-assed, shitty one. I know. It is pathetic. How in the hell can I even call myself a “writer” when I can’t even compose a few lines for the few people who were nice enough to sign-up for the occasional musing from me? Actually, it’s pretty easy. I’ll even go you one better. I’ll argue that my extended absence from blog world proves that I am, in fact a writer. Because even though I wasn’t sitting in front of my keyboard it doesn’t mean that I wasn’t writing. Stay with me.

I once read a quote that said (I’m paraphrasing) “Writing is the only occupation where staring blankly into space can be considered working.” While I wasn’t writing blog posts I was staring. A lot. And thinking about a host of things minor and major:

“How the hell am I 52?”

“I don’t understand how anyone watches Game of Thrones.”

“Gone Girl? Meh.”

“So, do I whip and then nay nay?”

“Okay, so the dwarf is also the king’s son?”

“Two FEET? Do you have the number for the snow plow guy?”

“How the hell am I 53?”

“Clooney got married?!?”

“I hope Joffrey dies!”

“Self published. We’ll see.”

“Donald Trump for President? Never gonna happen.”

“Dick Cheney’s still alive?!?”

“A dap?”

“How the hell am I 54?”

“Florida. Again.”

“I knew Jon Snow wasn’t dead!”

“When did I write my last blog post?”

So, yes, technically I wasn’t writing but as you can see it’s not like my mind was idle. And I do have another book in the pipeline, another memoir. I’m currently reviewing comments from my editor. Bit of a slog but coming along. Hope to have it out before the end of the year. But I’m feeling that writing itch. I think I’ll be posting more regularly. Hopefully. You know how it is, work, house, dogs, life. But even if I don’t post every couple of weeks don’t freak. It doesn’t mean I’m not staring out a window at absolutely nothing thinking thoughts.

Because if Ramsay Bolton makes it out of season 6 alive I’m going to lose it.

When I was thirteen I knew everything. Everything. There wasn’t a subject that I couldn’t hold forth on with the utmost confidence. The arts, politics, Literature—it didn’t matter—regardless of what question you posed or commentary you sought I had the spot-on, 100% guaranteed correct answer. Except for the niggling, unavoidable fact that I didn’t. But I thought I did. I mean, I really, really thought I did. Why do you think I would always turn down the volume on whatever my parents were saying, in particular my dad? Every time he would try to impart some hard-earned wisdom to me, my tendency was to nod vigorously, while my mind was occupied with much more important thoughts, like how to get my parents to buy me a pair of Earth shoes or rearranging the KISS posters on my bedroom wall. Wisdom, shmisdom, I had everything under control.

In hindsight, I blew off my dad more than he deserved. And isn’t that the great irony? You don’t realize you blew off your dad when you were thirteen until you have a thirteen-year old who blows you off while she’s busy being, well, thirteen. And on those occasions when I see my daughter’s eyes begin to glaze over as I try to explain to her the importance of studying hard and treating people well and the value of a dollar, I cut her a considerable amount of slack because I cut my dad hardly any. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to listen.

Shortly after my dad died in 1981, my brother Adam found a cassette that was a recording of a family gathering at my Uncle Bill’s house in California. We had recently moved there in an attempt by my parents to offer their three sons a better life, only to have that life fall apart when my dad passed away just six months after we unpacked. My brothers and I crowded around a tape recorder as we began to hear the sound of voices talking over other voices, the scrape of forks on china and the squeak of weight being shifted on wooden folding chairs—the soundtrack of a family gathering. But we were listening for something specific: our father’s voice. There it was! Clear as a bell, unmistakable, its Brooklyn accent tattooed on my brain. For a moment he was right there – loud, confident, funny. So there. And then his voice faded, once again cloaked by the sound of a good meal.

I don’t know what happened to that tape—I wish I did. Because I can’t remember what my father sounded like. It’s been thirty-three years since I last heard it. I feel like I should still be able to hear it in my mind, it feels so wrong that I don’t, but thirty-three years is a long time. And like everything else—over time—memories fade, images yellow.

As Father’s Day approaches I’m thinking about how smart I was when I was young, how I knew absolutely everything. And how I knew absolutely nothing.

I can no longer hear my father’s voice. I hope he knows how sorry I am about that. I hope he can hear that – and this:

Happy Father’s Day, dad.

This past Tuesday, May 20th, I was fortunate enough to have a reading/signing at the renowned Books & Books in Coral Gables, Florida. I want to thank everyone who attended the event. For those who couldn’t be there in person you’re in luck. The event was Livestreamed, here’s the link: http://new.livestream.com/uainmedia/M...

Hope you enjoy watching it as much as I did doing it.

You would think I’d have some deeply profound sentiment to offer up at year’s end. Something that captures the events of the past 365 days in a pithy yet emotionally resonant way. After all, in 2013 I published my first book. That’s a biggie. Seems like that should be enough for me to formulate some nugget of wisdom that I can impart to you. Can I be honest? I’ve got nothing. Zip. Shooting blanks. So instead, I’m going to offer up the obvious and hope that you won’t take off any serious points for lack of originality.

I hope 2013 was, all-in-all, a good year for you. By good I mean that you had a roof over your head, food in your belly and your families were well and warm. In terms of an end-of-year message that’s the best I can do. Not because I can’t come up with more words but because I can’t come up with better words: Home, food, family. It begins and ends there.

See you in 2014!

Matt

This past weekend I attended the first annual Washington-Metro Dachtoberfest in Frederick, Maryland. There were lots of fun events, informative presentations and vendors selling everything from hand-made leashes and dog beds to gourmet dog cookies and custom-made dog portraits. Essentially, it was long, short and wirehaired nirvana for those of us who spend far too much time with, and way too much money on, our Dachshunds.

It was hard not to be impressed by the sight of 500 Dachshunds strutting about as if each and every one of them was top dog. But it was also sort of silly. I mean, we are talking Dachshunds here. Not exactly the prototypical dog. At no point during the day did my gaze rise above eight inches from the ground. To the eye of a non-Dachshund owning person, it probably looked like nothing more than a Hebrew National trade show gone horribly wrong. But to those of us who have given our hearts and a not insignificant portion of our lives to them, it was simply wonderful. I’ve never seen so many genuine, ear-to-ear smiles under one roof.

Lots of folks who had already purchased Hounded beforehand came to the Dachtoberfest for the sole purpose of having me sign their copy, in particular, a woman from South Carolina. She was so excited to meet me and Melissa and Emily and, of course, Maya and Molly (Baxter didn’t make the trip). She said she felt as if she had known us for years. She even insisted on having her picture taken with me, with the dogs – even with Emmy and Melissa. As she and I chatted I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Melissa was talking with her husband. After they had walked away Melissa came up to me.

“You have no idea what you did for that woman,” she said.

“I know,” I replied, “she went on and on about how much she loved the book. It was so nice to hear that.”

“No, you don’t understand. Her husband told me that your book has meant so much to her, like, really so much to her and how it’s positively impacted her life. You should have seen his face while he was talking, he was really emotional about it.”

“Wow,” was all I could muster in response.

I sold and signed a lot of books that day, and every stroke of my pen was filled with sincere appreciation for what those people gave to me during those few hours – and it had nothing to do with money. In fact, after travel expenses, boarding Baxter and the cost of the books (yes, we authors have to pay for our own books), attending the Dachtoberfest actually cost me money. But, that’s not why I went in the first place. I went because I wanted to be around people like me. People who love Dachshunds. And I was around them. Enveloped by them. And each and every one of them made my day.

I left Maryland in the red. But so very rich.

Generally speaking, mattresses aren’t known for eliciting strong emotions, or emotions, period. But, we recently bought our soon-to-be 13-year old daughter a new Queen size mattress and it made me a bit sad. It always surprises me when a seemingly mundane moment affects me. I mean we’re talking about a mattress. That’s like getting misty over a new toilet brush. But, there I was, staring at a very ordinary Queen size mattress but thinking back to a different mattress. One surrounded by a cushioned bumper and, poised high above it, a mobile of crescent moons and silky stars. And resting upon that mattress was 8 pounds and 5 ounces of pink perfection.

I remembered another mattress. This one resided in a white washed wood frame approximately eight inches off the ground. The child that slept on this mattress—when she slept—was a bundle of energy and light. She walked and ran and giggled and felt like such a big girl now that she had a “big girl bed.”

There was a Fairy Princess blow-up bed phase, which, I suppose, doesn’t really qualify as a mattress, but for the sake of this post we’ll consider it one. It had high walls that cushioned the little girl when she slept restlessly which was—and still is—often.

Up until a week ago the little girl slept on a Twin size mattress she inherited from her brother. One day, we noticed the little girl’s feet started hanging off the end of that mattress. Feet that no longer bore the stubby toes of childhood, but rather, the long toes of adolescence. Which brings us back to the Queen size mattress.

My daughter picked out new bedding for herself. A rather ornate pattern that’s about as far as you can get from fairy princesses and a lost clown fish. It looks great on her new bed. She looks great in her new bed. And yet, when I tuck her in and kiss her good night, I still see that perfect newborn, that roaming toddler, my little princess. And, whether I’m ready for it or not, I see my daughter growing up. Fortunately, I still see the moon and the stars. I always will.

I promised myself that, while on vacation, I would stay off my computer; a promise that lasted about as long as it took me to ask my wife “Is there another outlet in here?” Anyway, now that we’re home I wanted to share something with you that I experienced while resting my weary bones in upstate New York.

I was reclining on a partially submerged float in the pool, when I got to thinking about less and, how less gets a really bad rap, and how more gets all the headlines. We must do more to fight hunger in Africa. We need to take more action to counteract the poisons that we’re spewing into our seas and skies. We need to do more to save the polar bears from extinction. And here’s the thing: I agree! We do need to do more on behalf of all these things and so many others, not just because it’s the logical, sane thing to do but because it’s also the obvious thing to do. And that’s the thing with less: you have to look for it. Really notice it. And that’s what brings me back to that pool and that barely buoyant float, because, while I was lying (sort of) on that float, I realized that less is pretty awesome.

I had been on vacation for just a couple of days: I had yet to turn on the television. I couldn’t even tell you where it was. I hadn’t heard anything. We were on 4 acres smack in the middle of some kind of wooded cone of silence. No sirens, car horns, telephones, airplanes, barking dogs, zip! Other than having to transmit to my brain the occasional comment from my wife or daughter, or the passing squeak of a chipmunk, my inner ears were bored stiff. I went nowhere of consequence. I neither explored, nor experienced. My days were filled with reading, writing, talking with my girls and floating on a 20 X 40 foot rectangle of chlorinated water. And I didn’t feel the least bit deprived, in fact, quite the opposite: I felt blessed. And, if you look at the word blessed, what other word do you see in there? Exactly.

So, the next time you’re busy thinking about more and — you will — stop! And think about less.

Pool optional.