the hurricane inside my brain

An excerpt from “Why I’m Social-Media Promiscuous”,  from The Good Men Project Magazine.

[read the full story here.]

I had been socially awkward for most of my life. I’d show up in social situations and not be able to remember if the person I was talking to was married or divorced, had one kid or three, was a Republican or Democrat. Acquaintances would ask me questions and I couldn’t think of what to say in return.

Half of me was worried I’d let slip something stupid about my life, and the other half was scared that I would totally screw up what I should have known about their lives. Nearly every conversation filled me with anxiety. When I could, I’d say as little as possible and leave the room. I rarely spoke on the phone. Work was a safe haven: the conversations were safe, scripted, and professional. I worked a lot.

In the summer of 2008, right before I made the decision to get on Facebook, I read an article in The New York Times by Clive Thompson called “Brave New World of Digital Intimacy.” Clive wrote about something social scientists call “ambient awareness”:

Each little update—each individual bit of social information—is insignificant on its own, even supremely mundane. But taken together, over time, the little snippets coalesce into a surprisingly sophisticated portrait of your friends’ and family members’ lives, like thousands of dots making a pointillist painting. This was never before possible, because in the real world, no friend wouldbother to call you up and detail the sandwiches she was eating. The ambient information becomes like “a type of ESP,” an invisible dimension floating over everyday life.

Ambient awareness not only made perfect sense to me, it was what I’d been missing my entire life. My fear of interaction and social situations meant I didn’t interact with people. I didn’t know how. A form of ESP—some way of knowing enough about people’s lives to be able to have a comfortable conversation—was exactly what I needed.

Like Gladwell’s concept of weak ties, the idea of ambient awareness was information I could act on. All I had to do was get in the rhythm of seeing what was happening in people’s lives through status updates and other postings; that way, when I connected with them in real life, I could have a conversation. I knew when someone had been promoted to vice-president, or when they had been fired. I knew if his or her relationship was “complicated.” And not only could I recognize people, I could recognize their kids.

The running joke about Twitter was, “Who wants to know which breakfast cereal you’re eating?” The answer?I do. When in doubt, I could have a conversation about Corn Flakes.

???

The full story, like most stories of love affairs, is long and complicated. Read it here.

I love being on the radio. These days, it’s not much different than talking on the phone to a friend who’s really interested in what you have to say. And so all you have to be is really engaged in the discussion. Like life. Like radio.

Here I talk about the Good Men Project, what is good, a feminist slant, and tell a few stories.

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Is commenting on news articles a new form of entertainment? Apparently.

One thing that has never ceased to amaze me in Social Media is the way people comment on blogs, stories, news articles. It truly is “new media” — blog comments as entertainment. What a fascinating way to watch what people really think.

Early on in my foray into Social Media, my friend Tim Brunelle said “Public conversations are not for the squeamish.” Which is  exactly why I like to have them so much. Talking about your ideas, insights, beliefs and having people question, hate, attack what you say — there’s something liberating and humbling and downright awe-inspiring. “OH. THAT’S  what people think. And guess what — It’s not always what *I* think.” I’m not always right. I admit it. But how on earth will I ever find out without putting it out there and inviting commentary? I will always be proud to say something interesting enough to get people talking.

Here’s what sparked this particular post: The Globe ran a story about The Good Men Project Magazine, a magazine I’ve started with Tom Matlack and Benoit Denizet-Lewis. We got attacked in the comment section. (Note: I, personally, got off relatively unscathed, short of the guy who accused me of being involved in a “nefarious polyamorous incident”. Tom and Benoit got called to task for everything from having a hyphenated name to not having their shirts tucked in.). All in all, it was another great day at the office in the ongoing quest to do what we set out to do from day one — “spark a national discussion about what it means to be a good man.”  The fact that sometimes the conversation turns ugly? Hey, that’s the way the world works sometimes.

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Read Tom Matlack’s rebuttal to the Globe article here.

Advice Goddess Amy Alkon joins in the fray with a passionate rant against the ranters: “You want something manly to rail against, rail against the way men are victims of paternity fraud and get a raw deal in custody battles all too often. Then again, no, don’t just rail. Do something about it — do what Tom Matlack is doing…taking an issue he cares about and getting a conversation going, and getting people to take action to be better men.” (and ends up talkin’ porn with the guys, to boot).

Read the original Globe article, complete with comments here.

And shoutouts to my friends Erik Proulx and Mark St. Amant who stepped up to comment back to the naysayers:

eproulx wrote:

As the publisher of The Good Men Project Magazine, I thought a two minute synopsis of where we’re at with the magazine was in order. It’s been an awesome month since we launched.

What does it mean to be a good man? And do men even want to entertain that question? Behold…

The Good Men Project

We went live on June 1, confident that the world needed a new kind of men’s magazine—one that dares talk about “the inner lives” of men.
What makes us different? We talk about sex without “selling sex.” We publish daddy bloggers, Army Lieutenants, and a transgender FTM who wants desperately to be a good man. We celebrate women (which may be why we’ve been so popular with them), and we publish women. We talk about fathers and sons without resorting to predictable clichés. We publish compelling features about teen suicide, addiction, and the death penalty. And we tackle the bad-man hype that seems to be everywhere these days.

(We also laugh. A lot. Because men are funny creatures who accidentally set their girlfriend’s hair on fire.)

Can a men’s magazine that takes men’s issues seriously prosper? Do men want to read about what it means to be a good man? We’re banking on it. And then banking on it some more. And then giving a substantial portion of our proceeds to organizations that help at-risk boys through The Good Men Foundation.

Questions? Please ask. After all, it’s our goal to start a nationwide discussion around these issues.

(Quick shout-out to Good Men Project Magazine editor-at-large Benoit Denizet-Lewis, for the copy above and most of all the great things around the magazine in general.)

“The subhead looks funny. I can’t figure out if it should have a period.”

We all keep working. Benoit will figure it out. He’s been a writer for the New York Times Magazine. The author of two books. Surely he can figure out a period on a subhead without help from us.

“Can anybody help me figure out why it doesn’t look right?”

“I’ll google it.” Henry doesn’t sigh, but his foot starts tapping a little faster. Benoit says, “I’ll look on Salon, see how they do it.” “Hmmm…they’re inconsistent, let’s try Slate.”

My keyboard clatters as I type. “Forget those pubs, how does the Times do it?” I hadn’t wanted to worry about subhead punctuation protocol, but we’re four days away from launching our own online magazine, and it has to be right. We search for subhead trends in every publication we aspire to.

“Does anyone know how to change the size of a video in blog post?” Sarah had been surprisingly quiet as she chewed her lower lip.

I lean slightly right, point to the part of the screen she’s scowling at. “Maybe…I think….here…in the embed code. Try reducing these numbers by a percentage.”

Sarah’s face lights up. “Ahhhh…calculator?”

I slide my phone over to her. We laugh.

Surely there are more important things I have to do. There are contracts to be signed, revenue models to figure out. There’s the content strategy for the next 6 months, the second book we’re putting together, the playwright we want to hire. But for today, I’ve promised my team I would focus on just the magazine, and that’s what I’m here to do.

I look around the conference room table. We’re a motley crew. It would be easy to label us: man, woman, old, young, gay, straight, single, married, divorced, tattooed, uninked, tall, short, have children, don’t. I won’t bother to tell you which of those describe me. But when you’re committed to a common vision, differences are irrelevant. We all love sentences. We understand the importance of design. We believe in the power of stories. We want to do some good in this world. We want to create something amazing.

And we’re four days away from a magazine launch and the subheads have to be figured out.

“Let’s go with no punctuation.”

“We can’t. Some of the subheads are two sentences. You can’t have a period on the first, but not on the second. That’s why it looks funny.”

“Some of the subheads aren’t sentences.”

“We have to be consistent.”

A while ago I had seen a question floating around the internet. The question was “If you were investing in a CEO, would you care how passionate they were?”

My answer to that question was that I think sometimes excitement gets mistaken for passion. Pure excitement about something? No – look at the numbers instead. But – to me – passion is really about caring. In relationships. In business. In life. And yeah, caring is important. Caring about the little things. Caring about the big things. I’d put my money on passion. For sure.

Benoit and Henry have settled on a format for the subheads. I know they will move on; a standard has been set, documented, and put in place. We will be consistent. We will be clear. We will be interesting. We will care, always.

There are new decisions to be made. “Hey Lisa.” Benoit is ever-serious as he poses the next important question. “Which headline do you like better for this article – ‘monogamously challenged’ or ‘make love like an animal, cuddle like a man?’”

I smile. I wouldn’t trade working on this launch for any job in the world.

The Good Men Project Magazine launches June first, 2010.

NOTE: This story first appeared on The Good Men Project blog July 8, 2009, shortly after I had begun working on the project.

“So what’s the book about?”

The cold drizzle on Newbury Street was threatening to become a downpour, and I was pretty sure Tom Matlack, whom I had met five minutes ago, was wondering why I wasn’t wearing a coat. “Well, it’s all essays. Haven’t you seen the website? It really explains what we’re trying to do.” I shook my head. “No, sorry, I think your website was down when I tried to get on.” As first impressions with a potential new client go, this was not going to be one of my better ones. We duck into the small restaurant. But by the time the waiter had poured our glasses of water Tom had enthralled me with his vision of the project.

“One essay is about this guy – he was locked up in Sing Sing. You know Julio Medina?” I’m shaking my head “no” again, but by now it didn’t matter. Tom might as well have been in the jail along with Julio at that moment instead of in a French bisto with hard crusty bread. “Julio watched while people got knifed. All the time. And the worst thing you could do when you got knifed was to get blood on your uniform. ‘Cuz then you’d have to either be a witness, and talk, and be killed by another inmate. Or not talk and be put in solitary confinement.”

We order Diet Pepsi’s, take small sips, swallow. “And one day, a guy got knifed right in front of Julio, and he couldn’t walk away. He couldn’t. He held the guy until the guards came.” Tom barely takes a breath of air before launching into the next story. “And this other guy, he worked as an architect. His marriage was failing, they had come from India, he had no one to talk to except for the janitors in the building he would ultimately condemn for structural instability. Or take Kamber. A war photograher. The guy’s brilliant. Brilliant photos. And all he knows is the war, and when he tries to come home and live a normal life, it makes no sense to him. I think he’s off in a foxhole in Afghanistan right now.”

“See, it’s all about the defining moment in these mens lives. The first person view, the telling of the story is what’s so powerful. Guys usually don’t talk about this stuff.” He looks away for a moment. “My own story is in there if you want to read about that mess.”

We walk back to his office and Tom hands me a manuscript. Like any other book draft, it’s plain, unadorned, nothing more than black type on white copier paper. Tom and I shake hands. I tell him I’ll get back to him with a proposal to help market the book. I walk to my car, flip through the manuscript, pick a story at random, begin to read: “Everything I know about being a man I learned from women, and especially when we were stoned and in bed, fucking and/or talking.”

I’m in.

As someone who doesn’t own a tv and who, for many years, had more books than friends, I have often said, “I believe even a mediocre book can be redeemed by one great sentence.” But as I read the manuscript in my car that day, I see that it is full of great sentences. Every story pulls me in, drags me under its spell, gives me a little more insight into the distinct world-view of what it means to be a man. My belief in the project and what it stands for is so strong, so profound, I want to get started *that day*.  I read some more. It hits me. I will do something with the sentences. I’ll take the best sentences, 10 of them, no, 100 of them. I’ll make them come to life, these tiny glimpses of defining moments. I’ll create 100 videos, each video a sentence or two. I will help tell the story of the Good Men Project the best I know how. By simply using the words of the men who created it.

Update: The book was published last fall, along with a film and companion DVD, amidst a fanfare of dozens of positive reviews from bloggers, in magazines and newspapers, and on radio and television. A series of live events has been unfolding beginning with Tom Matlack and Julio Medina on a visit to Sing Sing prison.

Since that day I first learned about the project last April, I’ve watched The Good Men Project grow into a true “worldwide discussion” about what it means to be a good man in our society. (The latest movie screening is in the works in Norway, there are groups of supporters in England, Australia, Germany, Canada, others). I’ve watched public conversations unfold that touch on topics as diverse and provocative as divorce, death, parenting, war, prison, losing a job, losing a spouse, homosexuality, racism, religion, rape, sports, pornography, infidelity, politics, raising daughters, raising sons.

I’ve watched men who say “I’m not sure if I can write” become commenters, bloggers, authors. I’ve seen people connect with each other, help each other, solve problems together.

What comes next? Those of us who are already in The Good Men Project are going to keep talking. About issues unique to men. About what it means to be “good”, in a society where the role models served up to us are confusing, at best. And we’ll continue to tell stories that offer insights to others, to give voice to those who have said in the past: “I don’t know how to talk about that”.

Our first next step is to launch an online magazine June 1, 2010. But we’re most excited about watching The Good Men Project unfold as it will – through the collective voices of the men and women – who helped create it.

Want to learn more? Buy the book, become a Facebook fan, visit The Good Men Project website. Please join in the conversation where ever you can.