Frank Nappi's Blog

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America no longer has the time to enjoy America’s past time.


Really?


Major League Baseball has announced that it will begin experimenting with a pitch clock at the Double-A and Triple-A levels this season after having tested it in the Arizona Fall League last year. The reason? Apparently, baseball games are just too long.

Someone please correct me if I’m wrong, but aren't leisure activities endeavors that we enjoy? And doesn't human nature dictate that when we enjoy something, we want it to last longer and that we lament the moment when inevitably the enjoyment has to end? If so, then how can baseball games be too long for baseball fans?

Do moviegoers ask the theater to fast forward to the end of a film, just to get to the conclusion in an expedited fashion? Are true book lovers spurred on by how quickly they can fly through the pages of a novel or rather by how long they can remain enveloped in the story? How often is a Caribbean vacation cut short a day or two, just because the vacationers have had enough of the sun and sand?

The answer to each of these questions is no. Why? Because we are always rushing. The point of leisure activities is to do them leisurely. And the longer we are away from the usual grind, the better. Thus, this whole pitch clock proposal presents quite a curious paradox. If we love baseball, and all it has to offer us, how can the games be too long?

Enough with the rushing everyone. Do we really want to make baseball games just like the rest of our lives?

Baseball is a welcome respite from our disposable, frenetic, instant gratification mentality where the beauty of one moment is sacrificed unmercifully just for the sake of the one right behind it. What ever happened to being in the moment, of appreciating what is in front of us before looking for our next diversion? Remember when we used to revel in the ballpark experience, singing whimsically,“buy me some peanuts and crackerjacks, I don’t care if I ever get back”? What happened? Now all I seem to be hearing is “Hurry up out there. I have a thousand other things to do.”

Anybody out there who really understands the game of baseball will insist that Major League Baseball pull the plug on the pitch clock. It only makes sense. What is it that separates our national past time from the other sports we watch so dutifully throughout the year? Maybe some reflection is needed here before implementing any monumental alterations that are slowly encroaching on the sanctity of a storied institution.


Baseball has no clock. That’s sort of the point. Like life itself, baseball has an inherent order and structure. But the game also remains wonderfully capricious, offering moments in time that are blissfully incomprehensible and so intoxicating for no other reason than we never saw them coming. Where would my beloved ’86 New York Mets be today without that miraculous game 6 comeback, made possible by the game being unfettered by time? That’s always been the beauty of baseball. Time does not matter. Baseball, unlike timed sporting events, offers us a glimpse into a world where anything is possible. And with no clock ticking away with cold detachment, those possibilities remain endless. This kinship we have with the game of baseball was best celebrated by Roger Angell in “The Interior Stadium.”

“Within the ballpark, time moves differently, marked by no clock except the events of the game. Since baseball time is measured only in outs, all you have to do is succeed utterly; keep the rally alive, and you have defeated time. You remain forever young.”

Baseball time. It is what all of us long for. To be governed by the tenets of the game and not some time piece that imposes limitations. The reality of our every day lives is that we are always on the clock. It dictates everything we do and often interferes with our ability to find peace and happiness. We commiserate with each other every opportunity we have. “I am just so busy, do not have enough time, blah, blah, blah.” So why make it worse? A pitch clock will do just that. We go to baseball games to escape our reality, not to be reminded of it.

Lost in all of the discussion remains why rule 8.04 has never been enforced. For those unfamiliar with this piece of baseball legalese, here is what it looks like:

When the bases are unoccupied, the pitcher shall deliver the ball to the batter
within 12 seconds after he receives the ball. Each time the pitcher delays the game by violating this rule, the umpire shall call "Ball."

Rule 8.04 has never been invoked during play for until now, baseball folks have recognized the value of those seconds - whether it be 12, 18, or 25. Part of baseball’s pageantry, albeit cerebral and not observable to the casual spectator, is the “cat and mouse” that exists between pitcher and batter. Pitch selection is not arbitrary; it requires thought and methodology. And thought and methodology require time. Batters also benefit from that time, adjusting their approach to each pitch while the pitcher and catcher are deciding on a course of action. A pitch clock would all but destroy the artful machinations that occur during the time a pitcher receives a ball back from the catcher and when he is ready to deliver once again. Pitchers may also argue, and rightfully so, the sudden rush to action could even marginalize their performance.

Both effects are enough to make Major League Baseball abandon this foolish idea.

I cannot help but think about my fire-balling protagonist from my The Legend of Mickey Tussler series. Poor Mickey never would have made it out of his first inning if he had to worry about navigating a pitch clock. Pitchers control the game for reason.

Video replay has already tattered the fabric of the game; pushing pitchers to compete with a clock, will completely unravel it.

I have the solution for how to improve the game of baseball. Stop tampering with it. Major League Baseball’s time would be better served extolling the attributes of the game that make it unique rather than trying to change them.

Baseball and Autism? As the author of The Legend of Mickey Tussler series, novels that feature as their protagonist an autistic teen blessed with a killer fastball, I have come to understand just how powerful the blending of the two can really be. While the two subjects might appear at first glance to be unrelated, one only need observe the two together to see that this union has the unique power to engender awareness, understanding, tolerance and ultimately acceptance.

My novel, The Legend of Mickey Tussler, is the story of a 17 year old autistic kid who is mired in the obscurity of a small farm in Indiana in 1948. In addition to his “condition”, which of course has no name at the time, Mickey possesses the remarkable ability to throw objects (most notably apples) with extraordinary velocity and precision. It appears that his life will never amount to anything more than the day to day toiling on the family farm under the cruel and watchful eye of his cantankerous father Clarence when a most fortuitous encounter with baseball manager Arthur Murphy, a man who himself is struggling with his own demons, alters the trajectory of each of the character's lives forever.

I wanted to tell a baseball story -- the genesis of the endeavor is my pure love for the game of baseball. I always thought that to combine my first love, which is baseball, with my passion for writing, would be a wonderful creative amalgamation. However, I did not want to re-tell the classic, trite tale that has been told before -- you know, the young talented nobody who is discovered and then makes good on the diamond. So that was a real impediment. However, I soon had the epiphany that if my character were unique -- special in another way too -- that would add a compelling wrinkle to the tale that has never been attempted. Conceiving Mickey Tussler as an Asperger’s kid was what unlocked the whole story.

I first became involved with a group called Best Buddies when I came to Oceanside High School as an English teacher. I was intrigued by how this club was able to foster awareness and acceptance for kids with special needs. My school district’s Best Buddies chapter is just one of the almost 1,500 middle school, high school, and college chapters worldwide. Our building’s group meets weekly – and promotes the spirit of the organization – pairing students with special needs with a student buddy to help foster socialization and acceptance for all involved. My work with this amazing group helped me to really bring my main character to life. After I began writing my first Mickey Tussler novel, I immersed myself even further in the culture of the Oceanside Best Buddies chapter – to ensure that I would do justice in my representation of a young man with autism. I have never looked back.

For those of you not familiar with my Mickey Tussler series (The Legend of Mickey Tussler and the sequel Sophomore Campaign), the novels chronicle the coming of age of young Mickey Tussler – a pitching phenom with Asperger’s syndrome, a form of autism. Mickey’s struggle for acceptance on a minor league baseball team during the 1940s helps to shape a story about overcoming obstacles, self-discovery, and the human condition. The first book, The Legend of Mickey Tussler, was adapted for the movie “A Mile in His Shoes” (starring Dean Cain and Luke Schroder) which aired on cable television last year and is now available on DVD.

Working so closely with children with autism and teens and getting to know their families has been more fulfilling than I ever could have imagined. My character Mickey is the embodiment of all the magic I have witnessed over many years and has become a wonderful vehicle for me to further connect with families of children with special needs and teens.

I have often heard people lamenting the fact that they are unable to escape the banalities of everyday life. While some of these malcontents are simply bored, and are searching for diversions, others have become outright disconsolate, worn down by the nine-to-five grind, mortgage payments, and all of the other shackles germane to adulthood. These poor souls are so mired in the tedium of routine that they fail to see the life preservers all around us.

So what is the answer?

Is there a cure for the frustration which stems from this inability to shed the constraints of conventional life in exchange for the opportunity to meet new people and to travel to different places? Is there a way for us to extricate ourselves, albeit a momentary respite, from the drudgery of the daily grind? There most certainly is.

Book your trip to paradise today!

Reading books provides the escape from life that all of us crave. When immersed in a good book, we are temporarily transported to regions and eras of which we can only dream. A “good” book is one which asks us for a commitment, a pledge of fidelity while we traverse the pages which lay before us.

Cursory reading is best left for the bathroom and dentist’s office.

These good books beckon us to engage with the characters we meet and embrace their varied circumstances. They require us to think differently and consider possibilities as we read, something which has become a lost art in the wake of this technological boom. And while this may require some effort on our part, it is well worth it. In exchange for our compliance, we are treated to the time of our life.

Why subject ourselves to the monotony of yet another syndicated re-run on television when we can join Captain Ahab on his quest for the elusive white whale? Why not travel down the mighty Mississippi on a makeshift raft with a boy named Huckleberry? Or perhaps you’d prefer to join a couple of American expatriates for the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona or spend an evening with a shipwrecked explorer on the island of Lilliput? How about following the struggles and subsequent rise to stardom of a 17 year old autistic baseball player in the 1940’s?

What could possibly be more exciting?

Why do we squander endless amounts of time on the internet conversing with complete strangers and entertaining their inane “statuses” when our time would be better served engaging in a philosophical interlude with the Prince of Denmark? What about sitting down to tea to discuss the great expectations of a loveable orphan?

It’s all there for the taking the minute we say we want to be rescued!

Book stores, the few that remain, and libraries are the last bastions of creative, unfettered thought. They house the magic elixirs that possess the ability to awaken us from our collective stupor. How else would we ever even consider the resiliency of the human spirit without the inspiration provided by a fair haired boy marooned on a remote island – or the young mother who is ostracized by her New England town and viewed as a pariah after an adulterous affair with the man she loves? These characters will set your minds ablaze.

And for those of us who really crave invigoration, why not pay a visit to the jazz age? We’re all invited to a party given by a man they call Gatsby.

Let’s see cablevision or YouTube top that!

It has been said many times that variety is the spice of life. If this adage may be accepted as a truism, then books are condiments for the beleaguered soul. Grab Shakespeare, Dickens, or Fitzgerald by the hand and venture off into the unknown.

Bring your chair, and a healthy appetite for adventure, but leave the remote and T.V. listings on the end table.

Recently, a reader of my latest novel Nobody Has To Know asked me if there are
any similarities between me and my protagonist, Cameron Baldridge. The query was met with more than just a little trepidation, since Cameron, a high school English teacher who gets involved intimately with one of his female students, shares the same profession with yours truly. After managing to dodge that bullet, this reader and ardent fan of the book altered the course of her inquiry and re-introduced the question: “Well, that may not be a similarity, but you can’t tell me that there is none of you in Cameron. Come on…give me just one similarity between author and character.”

Fair enough.

I am a staunch believer that all characters reflect in some way
their creator.I mused a bit over some of the less damning parallels between my protagonist and me, chuckling from time to time at some of the idiosyncrasies and experiences that we share. There is the rabid worshipping of the New York Mets, the childhood jaunts through the various hot spots on Long Island, and of course the obsessive love of language and literature. These satisfied her curiosity for the most part, but not enough to preclude one last question:
“What about personalized license plates? Do you have the aversion to these as Cameron does?”

Her reference to a conversation that occurs early on in the novel between
Cameron and his fiancée Hayley made me laugh. I had not even considered this.
“No,” I replied whimsically. “I don’t really have a major issue with license
plates. But bumper stickers? Bumper stickers are another story.”

Allow me to clarify.

I love living on Long Island. I believe that most native Long Islanders feel the
same way and are indeed proud to call the odd shaped island our home. Most of us recognize the unique nature of our home and celebrate its attributes
accordingly. We remain enamored with the miles of beaches that stretch endlessly
from shore to shore and are equally fond of the many beautiful parks that house
our spring and summer recreational endeavors. We are also very proud of our
neighborhoods and award winning schools – so much so that we have even come to
accept a shortcoming or two, such as the escalating population and traffic
many of us withstand on a daily basis. Who wouldn’t endure a little gridlock in exchange for the privilege of living in paradise? What I find intolerable, however, is having to look at the spate of automobiles whose bumpers are emblazoned with inane, self-indulgent, sometimes vulgar sentiments designed to alter the world’s perception.

Isn’t sitting in traffic punishment enough?

At some point, our population’s focus shifted away from topics of a religious or political nature to expressions which illustrate the collective ignorance,
narcissism and irreverence which plague our society. Messages urging people to
assume and active role in government (“Vote”) or to extol the value of peace
rather than strife (“Make Love Not War”) have degenerated into odd admonitions
reflecting an irrational malevolence or stupidity. The parent who boasts of
his child’s belligerence (“My Child Beat Up Your Honor Student”) or the woman
who proclaims her propensity for wild, aggressive behavior (“I Have PMS and a
Gun – Any Questions?”) are frightening on so many levels. What exactly is the
message these folks are trying to convey? And don’t they realize that the
mantras they have selected for their vehicles become a reflection of their
character?

The car bumper has, once again, become a pulpit from which the common man may
espouse his views on the world. I suppose this may still have its advantages. In our travels, we are implored to “Think Globally and Act Locally,” to “Save the Whales”, and to “Just Say No To Drugs.” These are all very worthwhile sentiments. However, as the popular adage goes, a little power can be a dangerous thing. Although I am truly comforted to know that “Jesus Loves Me” and that when all else fails, “Love is the Answer,” I see nothing redeeming about an edict which requires me to “Honk if I’m Horny” or to “Question Authority.” I am equally offended by the myriad messages which hold as their basic tenets topics which are both explicit and scatological.

Is there really anyone out there who believes that flatulence will arrest the
progress of a determined tailgater?

I suppose my real issue with bumper stickers is not so much what is being said as it is why. Who has ever had an epiphany while driving behind a bumper
sticker clad pickup truck on the Long Island Expressway? It seems that the
bumper sticker, like the pet rock, mood ring, and Rubics Cube, should have
acquiesced to the passage of time long ago. Would anyone really miss them?

Besides, don’t we have enough to do while driving; between applying eye makeup, shaving, eating and texting, who really has time to read anyway?

“Please” and “thank you” are indeed the magic words; they have all but vanished in inexplicable fashion from the face of the earth. All too frequently, we are besieged by people whose needs apparently supersede our own and, more notably, the concept of common courtesy. This chronic insolence has become such an epidemic that whenever someone does find the courage to resurrect some semblance of propriety and utters a “please” or heaven forbid a “thank you,” it becomes an
event of awe inspiring proportions.

The Golden Rule and all of the facets germane to this antiquated philosophy
seems to have been eradicated by a curious sense of entitlement that far too many people today possess. The “me” generation, with spokespeople such as Charlie Sheen and Lindsay Lohan, has spawned a legion of individuals who truly believe that their existence lies at the center of the universe. Nobody else seems to matter. I often muse (perhaps lament is a better word) over the disparity between this generation and that of my parents’ with regard to the precepts by which people govern their lives. “Do unto others” was the mantra that was spoken most often in my house when I was growing up. It was, perhaps, the most important rule in the house. My sister and I accepted it as a truism, and came to understand that any transgressions would not be tolerated.

This unfortunate phenomenon can be observed every day in the most rudimentary settings. Purchasing groceries from the supermarket, for instance, has become tantamount to military maneuvers that would even make the most skilled army tactician blush. Negotiating the aisles of your local food store without sustaining at least one “can you move out of the way” or at best derisive glare is certainly unusual. It’s enough to send you running for your therapist in an
unbridled fit of self loathing. And nothing is as harrowing as the check out
line. I have opted for the “self check out” recently as it limits the chance of any of these odious exchanges with others. But on occasion, when my cart is just too full of items to clog up the natural flow of the self-check stations, I am forced to roll up my sleeves and tough it out. It aint pretty. Between the regular express line infiltrator who indignantly feigns ignorance of the item
limitation and the line dodger who jockeys back and forth in an obstreperous fit of cart rage until he procures the most expedient avenue, one is lucky to escape the experience unscathed. There is obviously no place for manners here.

On one occasion not too long ago, I allowed an elderly woman to take my place in line, only to become the victim of mockery and ridicule by the impatient crowd on patrons waiting behind me. I cost them some valuable minutes and they were having none of it. I guess all is fair in love and groceries.

In any public establishment you frequent, from delicatessens to convenience stores, the song of the boorish can be heard. “Give me, "let me have” and “I want”are commands that have rendered the more conventional "may I please have” obsolete. It is indeed unfortunate, but the prevalence of such acerbic sentiments has desensitized us; we are no longer phased by them. But not too long ago, even I was astonished by the effrontery of a woman who was waiting on line inside a funeral home to pay her respects. After huffing and puffing and complaining about how long it was taking for the line to advance, her bluster turned more vocal as she announced for all to hear that she was “not going to wait any longer.” Despite the somber nature of the occasion, she proceeded to push past the others and cut the line, creating an unseemly disturbance and ultimately undermining the solemnity of the service. She would not be denied. In her mind, arriving at her nail appointment in a timely fashion precluded the concepts of respect and humanity.

The most frightening aspect of all is that the children of these offenders will, undeniably, repeat the same egregious behaviors that they have observed time and again. It has already begun. Young folks today possess an arrogance and swagger that, by its very nature, impugns authority. They are boastful, uninhibited and obnoxious. These first generation philistines have imbued their children with a truly distorted sense of self worth, rendering these young folks incapable of even conceptualizing another's feelings. In their minds, it is their duty to draw attention to themselves, even if it comes at the expense of others.

So how do we arrest this wave of impertinence? How do we revitalize “please” and “thank you” and prevent “excuse me” and “I'm sorry” from meeting a similar fate? My cynicism will nor permit me to entertain, even for a second, that a blog of this nature is a panacea for this moral vacuity. But I am a little hopeful that all is not lost.

On a recent trip to the shopping mall, my wife inadvertently placed her handbag on a display counter while she looked through a rack of blouses. Minutes later she left the counter without even realizing what she had done. A little girl, about eight years old, witnessed the whole scene. I learned later that she told her father and implored him to “find the lady who lost her bag.” Fifteen minutes later, my wife had her bag back. And my hope, albeit dim, was restored. When we thanked the little girl for her kindness and integrity, both she and her father just smiled. The he spoke. “My daughter was taught to help others,” explained the dad.

Those of us who still extol the virtue of proper behavior must refuse to
acquiesce to the deluge of rudeness that plagues our world. The battle is all we
have left. For those of us who remain staunch advocates of the “Golden Rule,” we need to pledge to make a concerted effort to stem the tide of insolence. And for those who are a little less combative and far more quixotic, perhaps the time has come to snap our fingers and click our heels while uttering some magical incantation in order to make these phantom words reappear.

Confession...

I own a Mac, I Phone and Kindle. I also have a Facebook account and I tweet regularly into the vastness of the cyber universe. I even download music now in lieu of the traditional CD purchase. But I do all of this, and some other things as well, with more than a little angst and trepidation, for I have always fancied myself a traditionalist, one steeped in the old fashioned way of doing things. But alas, I suppose I have no choice but to evolve with the emerging culture - we all know what happened to the dinosaurs - but despite my reluctant capitulation and my understanding of all the advantages these aforementioned technological advances afford, I am remain deeply troubled.

Who would have ever imagined that the technology which was created in order to enhance the quality of our daily lives would have assumed such an insidious life of its own, one which threatens to eradicate those of us who have been thoroughly seduced by the promise of expediency and convenience. As modern technology continues to burgeon beyond anyone's comprehension (remember when the cartoon “The Jetsons” was just a cartoon?) we all become a little less human, transformed from sensitive, amiable beings into faceless automatons incapable of intimate communication.

Who have we become?

Many of us traditionalists (there are still a few of us left!) lament the fact that in today's world, there seems to be a glaring absence of this intimacy - a desensitization that has altered the face of humanity. Very true. What remains an enigma, however, is why we do not recognize the source of our collective despair and consternation - why we don't rail against the reason why we have mutated into creatures who bear little or no resemblance to our parents and grandparents.


What have we become?

It is really quite simple; we have fallen victim to our alienation - or perhaps what is better expressed as our "alien nation."


It is impossible to pinpoint the exact moment when the fruits of our technology turned against us. When did this disassociation with others of our species become the norm? Somewhere between the advent of the answering machine and the inception of the internet, we lost our way. We have become slaves to our technology. This became painfully evident once again during Hurricane Sandy, when we were forced to revert back to our older, more traditional ways.

Many struggled because they have forgotten how to just be. And what it means to exist without technology.

Evidence you say? We send e-mails instead of letters, chat on-line or via text message instead of in person or on the telephone, and perform our monetary transactions via direct deposit or ATM. We engage in inane encounters with automated menus, do our Christmas shopping from a computer, and converse on cell phones while standing in line at the grocery store. True, all of these innovations make life faster and easier; but they are also impersonal and unnatural. In trying to create perfection, we have produced disaster.

Does the name Victor Frankenstein ring any bells?

In order to arrest the tide of this technological metamorphosis, if indeed it is not too late, we must all make a concerted effort to embrace our humanity and reclaim our quality of life.

Henry David Thoreau had the right idea - “Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity!”

Resurrect the paper and pen and write a note to someone you love. I cannot remember the last time I received a handwritten letter from a friend. Correspondence of this nature is priceless, for it is imbued with sentiment; words are much more poignant when crafted by hand. Handwriting is like a fingerprint; it is unique and emblematic of the writer’s essence. I still have dozens of letters from the WWII veterans on which my first novel ECHOES FROM THE INFANTRY was based. They are stored away with all of my most valued possessions. But I digress…

If pen and paper are not your style, next time you need to withdraw money from your checking account visit your financial institution during regular business hours and treat yourself to an impromptu exchange with the bank teller. It might seem strange at first but you’ll feel much better. Some of the best conversations are those which are unexpected.


And if you really want to immerse yourself in the human condition, and exorcise those technological demons, rebuke the X-Box and abandon virtual reality for the moment; meet a real person for coffee or dinner. Nothing combats our alien nation like the eye contact that occurs during a personal exchange between two people. You might want to leave any hand held electronic devices at home.

Of course I blush as I write, recognizing the inherent paradox here; you would not be reading this without the advent of the blog.

Sigh.

I guess I’m mired in the chasm between two worlds.

I am indeed happy to share my thoughts, but I cannot help but think that they would be better expressed in person.

I STILL REMEMBER my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Fitzgerald, preaching to my classmates and me about taking pride in the quality of our work: "Your mistakes are a reflection of your person," she preached with such passion. She was perhaps the most fastidious woman I have ever known.


Mrs. Fitzgerald demanded perfection. Or at least a reasonable facsimile. Poor penmanship, coloring outside the lines and cross-outs were all egregious violations; no infraction, however, was as heinous as the spelling error, for it was her contention that this type of mistake conveys a carelessness that threatens to impugn one's character. Fanatical? Perhaps, but the longer I live, the more inclined I am to believe that Mrs. Fitzgerald was on to something.

Although her methodology was at times despotic, it did illustrate the value of hard work. It is a lesson most of us never forgot.The impeccable calculations in my checkbook register (not one cross-out) are a true testimony to her power of persuasion. Her not so subtle persuasion has found its way into other areas of my life as well.


As I drive the roads of Long Island, some 35 years later, Mrs. Fitzgerald's
warning resonates in my mind like a full-scale nuclear attack. When I cruise past the local mini -mart that proudly proclaims to be “open seven day's a week”or enter a car dealership that “accepts you're credit application with no questions asked,” I am filled with an overwhelming sense of dread; if Mrs. Fitzgerald's philosophy is indeed valid, and these errors are indicative of the quality of service each proprietor offers to the public, Armageddon can't be far behind.


Driving the information highway is no better; in fact, I have found that I cannot read for more than a minute or two without being subjected to someone’s ill conceived post on Facebook or Twitter.

Sigh.

As time goes on, and both the gravity and frequency of these blunders continue to escalate, I find myself pondering their origins.True, not every third grader was fortunate enough to experience the Fitzgerald indoctrination,
but it seems reasonable that at some point during the course of the educational process these individuals should have learned the basic principles of the language or at least have developed enough common sense to consult someone who has before going “public.”

Some of these errors possess wonderful irony, like "The Comitee For Improvement Of Public Education." Others, like the dental office that extols the importance of "the three P's-pride, professionalism, and presision”-are frightening.

Other mistakes are just plain silly. Who can get angry at a motor lodge that boasts to prospective patrons about attention to every last “detale?”

I have also wondered, from time to time, what Mrs. Fitzgerald would think about all of the carelessness I have observed. Although her first impulse would most likely result in a trail of red ink marks stretching from Manhattan to Montauk,even she would come to realize that her correcting pen wouldn't stand
a chance against this deluge of errors. Something should be done.

This can be corrected, right?

Or have we simply become products of a world that has sacrificed integrity in language and expression for speed and convenience?

WTF? OMG...

I am scared....

The View Inside My Writing Space

I suppose my writing space is not that unlike those of other authors. Well...maybe that’s not entirely true. I do most of my writing in my office at home, a modest room with burnt orange walls adorned with my most treasured baseball memorabilia, highlighted by a beautiful 16X20 black and white Cooperstown signed photo of Ted Williams which hangs right over my desk. I have other unique items in the room as well, including game used spikes signed by Tony Gwynn, an autographed Sports Illustrated cover celebrating Hank Aaron’s 715th home run and two Shea Stadium seats that I acquired after the Mets shut down the old place. There’s lots more as well - other baseball items from seasons past that are imbued with memories that always make me smile.

The true story of Frank Nappi the author, however, probably lies in a careful analysis of my actual work area. My desk is essential to my existence as a writer, as it houses my Mac, keyboard and printer. This oversized walnut flat top is also littered with a cornucopia of items, some of which you would expect any author to possess - practical articles germane to the writing process, like pens and pencils, a clock, an old fashioned dictionary, and other office supply “stuff” like paper clips, tape, staples, etc. Although in this technological age most of the actual
work that goes into writing a novel occurs on computer, there are times when those traditional items come in handy.

Those items, however, share the space with others that hover, I suspect, in the realm of the idiosyncratic. These more colorful articles cluttering my desktop, the ones which really provide a glimpse into the world that is my writing space, include a tiny wooden Hemingway House replica I bought while in Key West, a 12 inch Batman figure, a New York Met Bobblehead, San Diego Sno Globe, lots of loose family photos and a F.Scott Fitzgerald magnetic finger puppet I received as a gift. An I-Pod loaded with every song every produced by the likes of Kenny Chesney, Zac Brown Band, Jason Aldean and a few others is also just a hand’s reach away, when the moment calls for a little diversion or inspiration as it were.

It is quite an odd amalgamation of “things” but it’s my space and it works for me!