Tag Archives: Je Suis Une Dork

Please Enjoy This Holiday Card

Creative non-fiction, For the love of a dog, Humor, Life and Other Existential Problems, , , , , , ,

Mid-year missive? Seasonal Dispatch? Or proof that I don’t understand how “months” work?

It is not December. It is June. Consider me six months late, or six months early, or maybe precisely on time for the inaugural June 25th Holiday Card I shall send from now until my inevitable end in a Kohl’s changing room (probably). Happy Global Beatles Day, International Day of the Seafarer, and Goat Cheese Day, however you celebrate.

Let’s pretend, against better judgment, that this is a normal holiday letter chock-full of unreasonably upbeat retellings of events that barely qualify as events.

Dearly Beloved,

We are gathered here today to bid a fond farewell to the first half of the year, which has slipped behind a paywall with all the grace of a dropped sandwich.

The 2025 bar was low, but with the grit of the truly uninspired, we limboed beneath it with room to spare. We are 170-something days into the year, depending on your level of faith in February. It’s a (preter)natural time to reflect with the bitter clarity that only hindsight and a poorly fitted bra can provide.

Rest was forecast. Rest was promised. Rest is allegedly in transit and estimated to arrive in the next 3–5 business years. I lie awake at 3:47 AM each day to get a jump on accomplishing absolutely nothing.

On the home front, there was no spring cleaning because spring in the Midwest lasts as long as a sneeze. I did move a stack of unread New Yorkers from one side of the coffee table to the other in a solemn act of seasonal repositioning. 

Told it was “unkillable,” I bought a pothos. It died. I replaced it with a stack of books, which now loiters atop another stack of books.

I also have an orchid, which they say is “difficult,” that chose to bloom for reasons I can only ascribe to malice. It is my favorite houseplant.

Unfortunately, the state of the actual world is ongoing. Politics remains a choose-your-own-nightmare. The word “unprecedented” has formally requested paid time off. Discourse is louder. Stakes are higher. Comic Sans is hanging on. The economy is allegedly resilient. This is code for “no one knows what’s going on, but we’re refreshing stock apps and trying not to accidentally buy crypto.”

Still, we persist if only out of momentum.

There are good things, though.

Vintage Hanes ad with a suspiciously cheerful family in matching pajamas clutching apples for reasons unknown. The father looks particularly smug. Ad’s caption reads: “Good news for the night shift!”

No, not that. 

My children. I have several of them. They are excellent, frequently taller than I am, and united in their disbelief that I once was cool. I will not list their achievements here — this is not a press release from the Office of Glorious Offspring. They are welcome to write their own holiday cards and/or cease-and-desist letters.

The dog continues to be the least civilized member of this household, as evidenced by his projectile shedding. He has barked at the dishwasher, a cloud, the concept of 2:30 p.m., and a bag of rice. He has rolled in unknowable substances and barfed in defiance of God and flooring. We adore him, this one-pooch anarchist collective.

N.B.: “Least civilized” is doing some heavy lifting here. The rest of us aren’t exactly wearing top hats.

I maintain an ironclad inability to stay awake during any show after 8:30 pm. I started a prestige drama that promised to change my life. It did not. Rather, people mooned about in sweaters, looking wealthy and having big feelings. I fell asleep and woke up believing I was in a West Elm catalog and that someone was mad at me.

Thus far in 2025, I have pursued no new hobbies, firmly adhering to my belief in the sanctity of not doing things other than cleaning up dog barf and marveling at my orchid.

Yet I look ahead, which these days feels like the biggest act of hope:

  • I will keep showing up, albeit dressed like I’m in Act Two of an experimental play.
  • I will continue purchasing lemons with unjustified confidence that I will use them.
  • I will only answer the doorbell if it’s pizza or the good parts of the 1970s.

Like many of you, I am tired, slightly out of focus, and occasionally funny according to random people who comment on my dumb social media jokes.

We’ve made it to midyear. That’s not nothing.

Season’s greetings. Enjoy some goat cheese and the following:

Book Review: The Way of the Writer

Books, Recommendations, Writing, ,

With no apologies to William Saffire for the “Follow the Bouncing Ball” nature of this and all my reviews.

Do you know the difference between a dork, a nerd, and a geek?

If you answered an emphatic “yes,” you are a nerd (for your studious, eager nature) and a geek (for your deep knowledge of a specific area).

But I asked the question, ergo, je suis une dork.

Long, romantic beach walks with craft and philosophy are my nerdy indulgence. I get geeky about drawing connections between art, responsibility, and meaning, and I’m endlessly curious about the dance of words in the grand theater of thought.

And because I’m here blarping about it with absolutely no chill? Je suis toujours une dork.

Labels can be fun, especially with fuzzy ones like those.

But for Dr. Charles Johnson, a polymath who believes in the sanctity and precision of language, terms like “nerd” and “geek” fall short. He deserves better: Genius. Writer. Teacher. Artist. Peerless storyteller.

And generous, because he shares a lot of his genius and years of experience in The Way of the Writer.

In this collection of essays, Johnson explores sticky, beautiful webs of life and art, the responsibility of the author to the greater culture, the nature of storytelling and the discipline it demands, and how these together can, when lightning strikes hard work, transform writer and reader.

No photo description available.

I always snort when people in films finish a book and clutch it to their chest. I tend to dismiss that as over-the-top and kind of icky.

But I…I think I get it now. This is a book I want to hold to my heart, to wrap my muscles and bones around. I want to somehow physically intertwine with this book. At the very least, to hold my work up to his expectations and find it worthy.

We all hit those quiet crisis moments in life. What am I doing? Where am I going? I get those a lot, mostly when I’m brain-farting in aisle 9 of the grocery store. But also in a larger sense these days, and regarding many things, including my writing. The bliss of self-awareness and aging, amiright?

I want there to be an *aboutness* to not only my work but my process. My lifestyle. My life, I suppose, if I’m going to be sloppy about the whole thing. Purpose in outcome, though, means purposeful input.

These are not conversations that come up in my life often, especially in aisle 9 of the grocery store. So, in lieu of having a mentor – or at least a chatty package of erudite ramen – at the moment, I scour the world and bookshelves for wisdom.

Here it abounds.

In The Way of the Writer, Johnson fuses his philosophical background with insights on the craft, emphasizing discipline, the societal responsibility of writers, and the symbiosis of art and life. He underscores the importance of mentorship, drawing from his personal experiences, and presents writing as both a dedicated vocation and a reflection of life itself.

It’s a soulful work chock full of anecdotes and classical references alike.

Some readers have commented that Johnson’s work is self-focused. I disagree. His thinking (his writing) draws from deep wells of his world, his careers, and his studies, as we can and should draw from ours. His reflections on the cycle of artist – apprentice, journeyman, mentor, public intellectual, artist (with an eye towards cultural impact) — pull from his own life and allow for richly detailed and invaluable insights.

Reading The Way of the Writer is like auditing a masterclass, yes, but also engaging in a deep tête-à-tête with a gifted storyteller. Johnson would be both a life-changing professor and a charming dinner companion.

Not only has this work secured a place in my personal pantheon of craft books, but I will squeeze this book tightly to my chest. Literally. Metaphorically. Perhaps in aisle 9.

Because that’s the kind of dork I am.