Author: Matthew Groff

  • My Little Apartment

    I just might spend my whole life in this little Harlem apartment. As funny as that sounds, this is a new thought for me. I have lived in this apartment for fourteen years, and I have always thought that one day, we would leave this place for another apartment, or miracle of miracles, a house. This apartment was always seen as a stepping stone to something else.

    But you know what… after fourteen years, I think I am coming around to see that this apartment is my home, and I will always have this place as my home.

    Sure, it’s tiny. In fact, it is very tiny. Two little bedrooms, a small kitchen, an even smaller bathroom. Two adults, a kid and a dog live in its confines, and if you add one more adult in the space, the apartment feels over-crowed, like it will explode, but what you are actually feeling is the anxiety of people being on top of each other.

    Yet, we are next to two subway lines. And a park. And a library. The kid’s school is walking distance and it’s a pretty good school. We like our neighbors in the building, and a police and fire station aren’t too far away either. We have made the apartment cozy, and each person has their own space to relax.

    Just wish we got more sunlight in the place.

    Maybe we might get a place upstate. Maybe a small farm house with a root cellar, and a place we can put all of our books. Maybe have enough land for the dog to run, and an old fieldstone wall cutting through the property. Maybe, one day.

    But in my little apartment, we have marked the kid’s height on the wall. The apartment is near a grocery store, and a place where me and the wife can get a dozen oysters on the half shell, and a pretty decent dirty martini.

    Maybe I will stay her forever after all.

  • SPORTS

    I just want to get this out of the way; it really rubs me the wrong way when “artists” hate on sports. From making a Mitt Romney type joke – “I like sport,” – to the playing dumb – “I hope our team makes more homeruns then the other team,” – to outright hostility – “A bunch of dumb jocks, and your dumb for liking it!” I know some of it comes from the fact that most “artists” went to schools where the arts were pitted against sports, and that resentment never went away.

    I come from a very competitive family, and my dad had a rule which was that we had to play a sport or have a physical activity until 16. After that age, we could do whatever. I played team sports up to seventh grade, mainly basketball and baseball, but that’s when it became very clear I didn’t have to coordination, nor the killer instinct, that was needed to be successful an athletics. For the next two years, I took tennis lessons, and I was pretty good, but it wasn’t anything that I had a passion for. It was just fun. Anyway, by the time I was 16, I was theatre nerd, and in a sense, I was part of a different team sport.

    When it came to watching sports growing up, I always found it pretty boring. But as I get older, I seem to find myself reminiscing on fond memories of being around my dad, and sports being on the tv. During summers breaks, Wimbledon would be on NBC, and I remember watching that with the old man. And March Madness, that was one that he looked forward to. And when the Cowboys were really good in the 90’s, that was another moment when we would watch Troy, Emmitt, Michael, Jay, Moose, and Alvin.

    And then there was my grandfather and his never-ending faith in the CUBS, while watching them on WGN.

    The other thing I find true about myself is that I like sports because it can tell a dramatic story; Underdog and GOAT, rookie and veteran, superstar and utility player. You have to believe that your team can win, and complain about the owners.

    Anyway… sports.

  • Knowing When to Give Up

    Lot of stuff happened this weekend; Nor’easter, sledding, digging out the car, and teaching the kid how to play UNO. Big weekend.

    Personally, the big one for me is that I came to the decision that a novel that I have been working on, on and off, for about five years, just isn’t going to work. It’s time to put it to bed, send it on its way, give it a its Viking Funeral, and so on and so forth.

    I had some big ideas about tackling male fragility and toxicity, white privilege, the social impact of a value-based economy, forgiveness, and being anonymous in a rapidly connected world. There was a lot going on there, and that might just be the problem. I liked many of the elements that I developed, including the subplot with a hermit in the woods around Phoenicia, NY, but… maybe it was never going to work.

    I really like the first chapter, and when I was thinking about it this weekend, that’s when the idea hit me that maybe the first chapter should just be a short story, and leave it at that. But to leave it at that, I need to go and do some work on it.

    I have started to feel like I don’t have enough time for all the things in life I want to do. I might not have as much time as I think. And because of that, how much time do I want to spend on things that aren’t working?

    I now see in my life that I hung around in situations that weren’t working because I was afraid of quitting. There were relationships, work situations, and even creative projects that I hung around in, even though I had that feeling in my gut that it wasn’t working, but my pride said I wasn’t allowed to quit.

    So, the novel is dead. Long Live the Novel.

  • ODDS and ENDS: Nor’easter, and Submitting

    (You know the drill…)

    First of all, Nor’easter is just a fun word to say. Imagine my surprise that when I moved to NYC in 2006, that a Nor’easter was a real thing, and not some old timey word that people pull out when they would try to be funny by acting like an old man. Such as, “Der’s gold up in dem hill, der.” Or, “Da nor’easter of twenty aught four froze dem chickens right, they did.” Anyway, a Nor’easter is coming tonight/tomorrow, and I am as excited as a little boy for the snow. Any snow on the ground still makes me feel like I am receiving a wonder gift.

    I did it yesterday; I submitted a story to a magazine. And I can admit that I rushed it. Rushed in the sense that I have now become eager to get started. I need to do something, get action, and not sit around rereading, editing, researching magazine and lit journals. So I sent out a story yesterday evening, knowing full well that I will be rejected. I’m not being negative, only realistic. Every writer will tell you that you encounter “no” more often than “yes.” And, I didn’t read any back issues of the journal I sent to, which I know is a little bit of a sin. BUT, if I am going to receive 1,000 no’s before I receive one yes, then I need to start knocking some no’s out of the way. One down, 999 to go.

  • Feeling Off Today (Unedited)

    The day feels off. In fact, it felt a little off right before I went to bed.  Then in the middle of the night, the kid woke me up, which was right after midnight, so it was like the day did in fact start with an issue. I think the kid needed to blow her nose. That was the problem I was tasked with solving. Which I did, and then put her back to sleep.

    And since then, it’s really been off.

    I got back to sleep but never really fell into a deep sleep; I was always aware that I was just barely asleep.

    So, this morning has felt off. And I have felt frustrated.

    I rewrote my cover letter for submitting, but I haven’t been able to shake the nagging voice which keeps telling me that this is a big waste of time, and nothing will come of it.

    And as I was researching literary, again the thought of failure keep coming at me. That, again this is a futile exercise. That I don’t know enough. That I don’t belong. That That That…

    It’s exhausting constantly fighting with myself.

    I know being tired doesn’t help, but I think I need to admit that I am a little afraid too. I’m afraid to fail. I’m also afraid to be laughed at. I’m afraid too because I have nowhere to hide. In theatre, I had a character or a puppet to hide behind. With my stories, it’s all me, and that’s putting the fear in me. I feel exposed.

    But, I don’t like feeling worthless either. Not having a goal, something to work towards, is a pretty awful feeling as well.

    Gotta push through it.