valentines and socks

This is what happens when Nick goes on a three-day weekend camping trip.

letter from the ceo

From: Mark Zuckerberg, CEO
Facebook, Inc.
1601 S. California Ave.
Palo Alto, CA 94304

Dear Mr. Smith,

Here at Facebook, we are constantly trying to enhance our members' experience by offering as wide an array of second-party games and applications possible.

Unfortunately, in recent days, we have been inundated by user requests seeking information on joining a fictitious game you have alluded to on your Profile Page -- a game called Alkie-Ville.

Regrettably, we must instruct you to cease all references to Alkie-Ville, for the following reasons:

1. Baby cows are not being fed in Farmville. Barns are not being built.

2. Orphan baby ocelots are wandering around between the cages in Zooland.

3. Fish are dying in Aquariumville.

And all this because users are flocking away from their virtual responsibilities, lured by the promise of libation and recklessness in Alkie-Ville.

I've had my research department look into the matter. Penguins cannot serve alcohol, and there has never been a recorded case of one pecking out the eyes of a human being.

Please, stop playing Alkie-Ville on Facebook. Our other applications are being ignored. This is akin to what Britain did to China in the Opium Wars, and you should feel responsible for our unfinished construction and hungry, abandoned, or orphaned baby animals.

Sincerely,

Mark Zuckerberg, CEO
Facebook, Inc.

what it is

By Nick Sweeney, Grade 11

Last night, I finished reading Mr. Smith's next book, The Marbury Lens, and I couldn't sleep after that. Mr. Smith told me I could write about it if I didn't spoil it, which is really hard for me to do, so all I'll say is the ending paragraphs totally gave me the creeps.

I read a lot of books. I grew up reading Harry Potter, and when I was older, I read all the Tolkein books. I read a lot of Stephen King, the Dune books; and I've even read Twilight and The Hunger Games. But I don't have any idea, exactly, just what type of book The Marbury Lens is.

If I had a bookstore, I would probably build a special shelf for it right in-between the YA section and the grown-up books. I know how Mr. Smith feels about the whole "Young Adult" category, and, with this book, I can see why. I think the ideas in the book are very adult, so grown-ups will like it. But the book still fits the very general and vague criteria for YA fiction: the protagonist is a teenager, dealing with difficult issues: trust, friendship, and loyalty (the last of which, I think, is an especially powerful issue for boys).

But The Marbury Lens is also kind of a fantasy. When I researched "fantasy," I found that the main characteristic of the genre is that it contains some elements that can't be found in our real world, or it creates another world altogether. And The Marbury Lens definitely does that. But, unlike most of the "fantasy" I've read, there is no magic or mythical animals in the book, even if there are some really weird creatures here and there. And it's hard to tell, when I read it, if the other world of Marbury is here, in the past, future, or just some crazy hallucination in Jack's (the main character's) head. I figured it all out at the end, though.

At the same time, The Marbury Lens is a horror story because it scared the hell out of me. I read that if a novel is meant to scare you, and, especially if the novel has ghosts in it, then it's a horror story. Well, I don't know if Mr. Smith intended to scare me with the book, but he did. Really bad. And there are ghosts in the book, too, which means it's a horror story.

The other thing about The Marbury Lens is that it is also Science Fiction. Because, although Science Fiction, like fantasy, involves alternate worlds and things that do not happen here and now, Science Fiction offers a logical explanation of how the story gets there. And what happens to Jack in The Marbury Lens does have a logical kind of explanation to it.

So I'm still trying to figure out what this is. All I know for sure is that it's going to be a while before I sleep with the lights off again.

-- Nick S.

doubt

By Nick Sweeney, Grade 11

So, when I was over at Mr. Smith's house, I told him about how I didn't think what I was writing was any good, and how I kept stopping myself and going back to the beginning and starting over.

He told me that he knew a lot of writers who did that. Mr. Smith said it was an easy way of giving up; so that I'd never have to finish what I was working on.

So I asked him, don't you ever doubt what you're writing?

Mr. Smith said that he never didn't doubt what he was writing. He said, why do you think I don't sleep? Do you think I don't like sleeping? He said, I'd way rather be asleep than be doing just about any other thing I could think of.

He told me that the time he doubts things the most is right when he's finished writing them. "Nick," he said, "I can't tell you how many times I've looked back through 400 pages of something I just finished and thought to myself, 'What the hell was I thinking?'"

Which kind of made me feel good, but I can't even get past two-and-a-half pages. I couldn't imagine all the time and work and missed naps that would go into producing 400 pages, only to wonder if what you just did was ever any good in the first place.

No wonder the guy drinks so much coffee, which is actually starting to taste drinkable, in my opinion.

-- Nick S.

woundsday

By Nick Sweeney, Grade 11

Let's just say I met "someone" at the Super Bowl party I went to on Sunday, which is why I haven't been taking care of Mr. Smith's blog for a few days.

I haven't been home (we live in Bridgeport, in Valencia, on the shores of a huge and perfect artificial lake that smells like Ajax cleanser), and Mom has been texting me like crazy. But I borrowed my new friend's BMW and drove up to Mr. Smith's house at his usual working time, just to let him know I was still okay.

But something apparently happened to Mr. Smith while I was gone. At first, I thought he might be dead. It was really creepy, because I just let myself in (he tells me to), and his office was totally clean. All the papers and boxes were gone. There was no more mysterious coil of rope sitting on the couch, which was now empty enough for me to actually sit on.

I even snapped a couple photos of it before realizing that Mr. Smith had been sitting at his computer (I also realized it was actually on top of a desk), working on something.

So we talked for a while, and Mr. Smith made me drink black coffee, which I did gag on, and he scolded me that kids my age should never fall in love and think they've found their soulmates because our souls were still fetuses and didn't we, at some point in the future, ever plan on having real fun?

I didn't get what he meant, and he does regularly strike me as being a sourpuss, but I guess I've been starting to grow fond of Mr. Smith, not in a creepy way or anything, not like my new friend I met at a party in Tesoro on Sunday (which is probably the second-nicest tract in Valencia, after Bridgeport).

Then Mr. Smith and I talked about writing again, and he told me some really interesting stuff. But I have to get the Beemer back before my friend wakes up, and I really should go to school today, too. So, I'll have to tell you about it next time.

-- Nick S.

other men's weather

One of the things young people ask me about most frequently is where do I get the ideas for my stories.

Well, all of them have quite a bit of personal nonfiction in them, and I'm not going to say exactly where the line is between memory and imagination. But I have to say, again, that I really do believe in this Jungian concept of a collective unconscious. It has to be out there, and here's why.

Growing up, attending all the decades of school I'd subjected myself to, I was always told that dreams were just ways your brain had for processing through information it received during waking hours.

But, then, why do I dream about things that I have never seen or even imagined in my waking phase? Half of the story in The Marbury Lens was a dream, and not a very nice one, I may add.

And then I had this dream about a kid who was helping his father dispose of the body of a murdered man, and that became part of the story, too. Even the title of the book was part of a dream, and, believe me, if my brain had ever seen these things in my waking life, I'd be even more messed-up than I am.

So, two nights ago I had this dream about a house; and somebody had stolen three valuable paintings out of it. The paintings weren't taken just because of their value, they were stolen so they could be thrown into a swamp. It was raining in the dream, and the owner of the house was standing at the edge of the swamp where his paintings had been destroyed, complaining, "This is other men's weather."

So... if there isn't a "collective unconscious" hovering around out there, where do things like that come from? All I know is when the dreams like that start, I usually start writing another book. And let me tell you how much I do not want to write another book at the moment. So leave me alone.

Where the hell is Nick?

digging out

Nick is still on hiatus.

I tried not to do it, but I did it anyway.

I cleaned my office. I even convinced myself the excuses I was coming up with for not doing it were sound and reasonable, but I forged ahead and did it. Maybe Nick will take a picture next time he shows up.

It's interesting, though, the kinds of things you find when you clean out piles and piles of accumulated and neglected stuff. I felt like an archaeologist on a dig, discovering evidence of the earliest hominid to inhabit the earth.

Here's what happened, and what I found, in no particular order:

1.) I found a brand-new travel toothbrush.

2.) (Not a surprise) I found a brand-new, unopened bottle of bourbon.

3.) Dried cat barf. Not brand-new. You know that song from the Stylistics? You Make Me Feel Brand New? Cat barf, whether moist or desiccated, does not make me feel brand-new. And, anyway, the cats don't come up here anymore, since I got my new dog. My new dog -- apparently -- is above eating dried cat barf. Too bad he's past the fifteen-day return policy.

I mean, hello! dogs eat barf, right? Who'd have thought they were coming out with some new, genetically-engineered, version of dog that abstains from eating barf? All my dogs have always eaten barf. Always. They've never let me down in that regard, not once. They often ask for more, looking at me with those longing doggy eyes that plead to me, Daddy, will you make some more,please? when they've finished.

But... noooooo... not mister no-I-do-not-eat-barf puppy.

What good is that, I ask you.

4.) (With an introductory rant) I hate all forms of paper mail -- with a BIG exception of hand-written paper mail from readers and anything from my editor or agent. And gifts. And CDs to review for Caught in the Carousel. Other than that, I think all businesses should just do things online. But even my utilities, banks, and most of the other bills I pay INSIST on sending me PAPER mail, which inevitably stacks up because I do literally ALL my business stuff online. Okay, so I just routinely started shredding up all these envelopes because I knew what was in them and I'd dealt with them months ago.

Until I started shredding an envelope containing cash.

American cash.

Now it's got a kind of Dennis-Hopper-in-Easy-Rider-jacket-fringe on the bills I managed to save.

Is there a law against shredding cash?

If so, I freely confess to having done that within the past 24 hours.

Put me in prison.

I'll take the "single" room with a king-size bed and southern exposure, please.

5.) I found no fewer than four packs of complimentary post-it notes from some of the author appearances I made in 2009. You can never have too many sticky notes, in my opinion, especially ones from Cracker Barrel Old Country Store in Lebanon, TN.

6.) A Dove Bar -- the candy kind, not the soap or ice cream kind. From a festival I went to last year. I thought about eating it, but it probably wouldn't go good with the bourbon, and, besides, the paper was stuck to it.