Dear Mother,

There's a document in my Google Drive that I wrote about nine or ten months ago, when I was trying to decide what to do with my website. I titled it "Website Thunder Brain" because I like to be different, and this sounded cooler to me than "Website Brainstorm." It's basically a list of ideas for my website, this light-gray masterpiece that is jordanjeffers.com. Here's a direct quote from part of it:

Blog content should be mostly non-topical, humorous work, in the following order of priority:

1. Fiction - Along the lines of McSweeney’s Internet Tendency.
2. Nerd appreciation - Thoughts on wizards, books, making friends, and playing games.
3. Christianity - Thoughts on religious life, scripture, and pop culture?
4. Sports - Personal narratives, fun with baseball history, and shameless Cardinals rants

Let's focus on the first item on that list. When I said, "Along the lines of McSweeney’s Internet Tendency", what I really meant was, "Almost identical to McSweeney's Internet Tendency in every way." I basically intended to steal their model as much as possible, focusing on short pieces that smash genres together in different ways. (Stealing other people's ideas, of course, is a writerly tradition that dates back to Shakespeare.) The first two stories I ever wrote for this site -- Letter of recommendation for Ms. Amelia Bedelia and A series of letters to the boy who keeps cutting things off of the Giving Tree -- are pretty classic McSweeney's style stories, though longer than they normally publish.

I never really stopped copying McSweeney's, or "the Tendency" as I like to call it, though much of my work now is a bit less "conceptual," fiction that's closer to being a story than an idea. But I always felt like they had found a niche that was really worth exploring, little ideas that could have a big impact on the way we see little things, like lower back tattoos.

Anyway, this is all behind the scenes sort of stuff, and not particularly interesting. I really just quoted the passage above to show you how much I respect McSweeney's, how much I wanted to emulate them.

And that brings me to a few weeks ago, when the Tendency announced their 5th Annual Column Contest. They do this every year, as you probably picked up on from the word "annual," soliciting columns ideas from random people. The winners all receive a $500 prize and a chance to write for the Tendency for a year. This sounded like something I wanted to do/spend, so I decided to enter. I figured that, at the very least, I could use the opportunity to develop something new for my own site.

It took me about a week and a half to really come up with the topic and write something worth reading, eventually coming back to the third item on that list, "Thoughts on religious life, scripture, and pop culture?" The question mark should tell to you how confident I was about my ability to do this in a way that was both real and humorous at the same time. Writing about religion is dangerous work -- the ground is treacherous and thorny, peppered with land mines and banana peels. It's equally easy to blow yourself up and make yourself look like a fool. Often it's safer to circle around the long way, and try to come at God from an oblique angle.

Then Mr. Robin Thicke and Ms. Miley Cyrus decided to write humorists everywhere a blank check of comedy at the VMAs, and my new column came together around their particular insanity. I called it "Speaking for All Christians Exactly Like Me," and sent it off like a young child to their first day of school, with a tear, a prayer, and a few shoelaces untied.

A week or so later it came back to me, along with a nice little email from the Tendency informing me that I had not won. [emoticon sad face]

But...[dot dot dot]

I had been honorably mentioned! [emoticon happy face]

Look, you can see my name on the contest results page.

Though this mention comes with no prize money, it does come with much honor and, more importantly, the same chance to write my column for McSweeney's for the next year that the winners get. So starting sometime near the end of September, you'll start to see "Speaking for All Christians Exactly Like Me," on the Tendency. The columns will all be about pop culture in some way or another, and I'll post links to them on my own site, and tweet them, so you won't miss any.

I'm super excited about this, in a way that's really hard to describe. You know those times when something happens that you can't stop smiling about? This is one of those moments, for me.

Hope you are well and joyful, as I am. Can't wait to see the new baby niece again this weekend! She's going to be so proud of me.

With love always,

Your son Jordan

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Jordan Jeffers writes letters to his mother on the Internet because stamps are a form of witchcraft. Feel free to give him electronic encouragement via the little Facebook and Twitter buttons below. It means more to him than you might think.

Dear Mother,

I've met a lot of people this year. I don't remember most of their names, but I'm confident that I did meet them. There's Baldy-Guy Glasses and New Drummer Boy and Grain Elevator Guy, just to name a few. They're all lovely people, and most of the time I enjoy our conversations. Grain Elevator Guy in particular is super nice.

But there's always something uncomfortable about those initial meetings, something that goes beyond my ability to forget all of their names seconds after I hear them. Because, inevitably, they always ask this question:

"So, what do you do for a living?"

My response to this varies, usually depending on my level of confidence at the time.

1. Low confidence: "Well, right now I'm trying to do freelance writing full time, actually, at least until the end of the year." This one is generally followed by at least 48 seconds of me rambling on about my website, or sending things into magazines, or my plans to self-publish a fantasy novel, or my plans on finding another job after the year of writing is over, until I have to excuse myself because of excess sweating.
2. Moderate Confidence: "I'm freelance writing full time at the moment." My tone of voice strongly hints that this could change at any moment, once I realize the extent of my folly.
3. High Confidence: "Uh, I'm a freelance writer." I always include the 'Uh.' It's shorthand for 'I suspect you're going to think this is weird.'
4. Confidence of a Thousand Lions: "I'm a writer."

As you can see, the less confidence I have at the time, the more words I tend to use. This is a good rule of thumb for a lot of the things I say. Short, simple words are often dangerously transparent. It's much more safe to hide behind complex phrases and dependent clauses, endlessly stitched to one another like patches on a quilt of fear. "Quilt of Fear" is now the title of my next story.

But though I change what I say, I'm always thinking the same thing.

"I mooch off my wife."

Now I do get up, every morning, and fill my digital papers with digital words (and occasionally my real paper with real words), and I am living. But in spite of those two facts, I don't really write for a living. Because for the first nine months of this experience, I did not make one red cent from any of the words I've put to paper, digital or otherwise.

Then, about two weeks ago, I'm standing in line at Fusion Brew, deciding what kind of Chai Tea to get, and my intelligent phone tells me I have electronic mail. It's from Analog Science Fiction and Fact, and it's three sentences long, and it's from the editor there, and he's telling me he likes the story I sent him, he thinks it's a good fit, and he's going to take it.

Wait, what?

I show this to Madelyn, and we just sort of stand there in shock for a second, and forget to order our drinks. I spent the next forty-five minutes frantically Googling this guy's name, trying to make sure he's actually the editor of Analog, that the email address he's sending from is really Analog's address, and that I'm not being elaborately and cruelly tricked. Until the issue actually comes out, and I have a copy in my hand, I think I'll still be worried about that.

Of course I called you later and told you all the details. I was holding off on telling other people until I actually got the contract, but that happened a few days ago, and I mailed it back in, and USPS tells me it got there today, so I think I'm safe to tell everyone now.

There's this thing that happens when you're a writer, this pathology that you develop where you really, really want people to validate you for what you do. Because, let's be honest, I'm not performing surgery here, or building roads, or teaching any children. I'm writing stories about gnomes and Axe body spray.

The conflict between writers and the rest of the world is pretty old, going back to the day Plato threw the poets out of The Republic (That's a gross oversimplification of his argument, but whatever, this is the Internet. You can read Plato's real argument if you want). So there's this deep fear in every writer that when you sit down and pump something out you're wasting your time, that you should be working in a homeless shelter instead of writing something that tries to make people laugh and think and maybe feel something.

So when a complete stranger in charge of a big magazine (big for sci-fi magazines, anyway) tells you that he likes your story and wants to publish it, and not only that, but he wants to pay you for the privilege, you start to feel like king of the world. It doesn't prove that what you are doing is actually worth that money. There's lots of writing out there that's not worth the electronic paper it's not printed on. But it does pay a month's rent with a decent bit to spare.

I'm still not supporting myself with my writing, not yet. But next time someone asks me what I do, I'm pretty sure I'm going to use short, simple words.

All my love to you and Dad and Grandpa and the dog,

Your son Jordan

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Jordan Jeffers writes letters to his mother on the Internet because stamps are a form of witchcraft. Feel free to give him electronic encouragement via the little Facebook and Twitter buttons below. It means more to him than you might think.

Regular readers of this website (see also: Mother, my) will have noticed a certain silence the last few weeks, as personal and professional considerations have forced me to alter my normally diligent writing and publishing schedule in favor of a more relaxed program. In other words, I've been really busy, and I haven't been writing as many funny stories.

There are lots of different reasons for this, which include, but are not limited to, sickness, travel, weddings, conferences, car batteries, car tires, something called an ETAX system, car shopping, car agonizing, car buying, Gettysburg, the Smithsonian, the Lincoln Memorial, a half-marathon, and something I like to call "laziness."

The biggest reason, however, is that I am currently pouring all my creative energy into a novel, and that tends to suck all of the funny stories out of a person. Sorry about that. You can, however, expect a return to our regular publishing schedule (new stories Wednesday, new blog posts Friday, for those of you who don't know) once the first draft of the novel is completed.

[BEGIN PROMOTIONAL LANGUAGE]

I'll also be releasing a "best-of" anthology of funny stories sometime near the beginning of September. This anthology will include updated and expanded versions of some of my most popular stories from the last year, along with a healthy dose of exciting new material, including:

• The adventures of Stephen King, Nicholas Sparks, and George R. R. Martin as they try to stop J. K. Rowling from destroying the world!
• The heroic saga of Padrick Pennington, the man who lost everything trying to outlaw the use of Dr. Seuss at high school graduation ceremonies!
• The Way of the Sub: Part II!
• The story of a lowly, nameless stormtrooper, struggling to make a workers compensation claim in the crumbling Galactic Empire!
• Probably something with goblins in it!

If you have an intelligent electronic device of some kind, you'll be able to read it. And you should read it. It will be funny and almost free.

Also, you should read it if you are someone who knows me well enough that it would be kind of awkward if you didn't read it.

Anyways, info on all that will be posted to this website with increasing regularity as the release date approaches. You can also expect all of the completely free words to continue as normal.

[END PROMOTIONAL LANGUAGE]

In the meantime, I suggest you catch up on the news, invite a friend to lunch, or visit some of your favorite trees. I will be buried in my computer screen, fiddling with prepositions.

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Jordan Jeffers would like to thank every single person who has read anything he has written and said something nice about it. He would also like to thank every person who has lied about reading something he has written and said something nice about it. It means more to him than you might think.

I'm not sure what grade school was like for you. Like most children, I sort of assume you never had a childhood of your own. I do remember a few vague stories about nuns, but those could very well be from television shows. Sometimes the two blend together.

At any rate, in my grade school, teachers and principals and other adult figures were always saying things like "Follow your dreams!" and "Reach for the stars! You might just land on the moon!" Or maybe that was from the cheesy posters that every teacher has on their walls. Something else I don't remember.

Well anyway, I took those teachers and their posters seriously. I acted like they meant it. They didn't actually mean it, of course. Sure they hoped for it; they hoped all the little children in their class would land on the moon someday. But hoping for some thing is very different than really meaning that thing, meaning it with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind.

Christ said that about loving God. If you say you love him - and you really mean it - you'll love him with all your heart-soul-strength-mind. I like to think it's significant that mind is last in this list. (It's not actually significant, that's just what I like to think. Strength is last in Mark's gospel.) My mind is the thing least able to love. It's fickle and tricksy, precious, it's split into too many Jekylls and Hydes.

But my heart and soul and strength, those things are much bigger, much slower ships. It takes a long time for the rudder to change their direction, to set them on the right course. So the route they take means more. The mind is like a flag, blowing this way and that in the wind. But the soul is the ship beneath the flag, and if you set the sails right, it'll keeping heading in roughly the same direction no matter how the wind is blowing. You may have to row sometimes, of course, if you're in the doldrums, and that's where your heart and strength start to matter.

Have I lost the thread of this metaphor yet? My point is that I took these teachers seriously, with my heart-soul-strength-mind, and set myself on a course for the moon. But I was rather stupid, you know, and ill informed as well. Nobody really told me how difficult it was to get there, how many test rockets had to crash and burn before I'd be able to build a really good, solid, reliable rocket, one that wouldn't crash in the ocean or blow up in my face or spin around on the ground with sparks shooting out of its butt like some kind of cheap firework.

I think a lot of people are happy enough to live on the ground, to set their feet in the earth and raise children, enjoy summer baseball and fall football and do something kind every day. But I think that population is much smaller than we like to believe. I think there's a lot of people out there, right now, who still hear the teachers and their posters, whispering in their ears about the wonder of the stars.

But space is scary as well as beautiful. One screw-up and you'll come crashing back down to earth, or end up floating in the cold darkness. The good part is that we're not alone. People are nice. They'll send you a jet pack, or catch you on something soft, like a high jump mat or a giant marshmallow. And then you'll think, "Wow, my rockets might not get to the moon, but they'd be great for toasting this giant marshmallow." And little kids will come from all over the world to get a piece of delicious, enormous, perfectly toasted marshmallow, and you'll lick your sticky fingers and feel like you did something nice and awesome, all at the same time.

I want that for everyone, you know? One of the first things I ask people when I get to know them is whether they are happy with their jobs, if there's a star or marshmallow somewhere in the distance that they've got their eye on. Because, if so, I want to help them, with encouragement if nothing else. But I have a harder time telling them about how hard it's going to be too. How life is going to be frustrating for a while. How their ship takes time to swing around and head in a new direction, especially when the current is against you.

Sometimes I wonder whether you reached for the stars, Mom. Or whether Dad did. I don't know. I hope so. But I'm too tangled up in the situation to really tell. Maybe you're one of those people who's happy to be exactly where you are, though probably there's a whole unlived life somewhere in the back of your mind, the way there is mine. The way there is in most people.

There's a mouse pad sitting next to me that has a quote from Saint Francis of Assisi: "I have done what was mine to do; may Christ teach you what you are to do." I like that quote. It uses small, simple words. I pray that for myself and for you and Dad and our whole family and the whole church and every non-believer out there. Whether he wants us to land on the moon or toast giant marshmallows, let's do it with heart-soul-strength-mind. Let's mean it.

With love always,

Your son Jordan

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Jordan Jeffers writes letters to his mother on the Internet because stamps are a form of witchcraft. Feel free to give him electronic encouragement via the little Facebook and Twitter buttons below. Peace.

This past weekend, my older brother got married. Here's what I had to say about it.

I've been looking forward to giving this toast for several years now, long before Arthur and Joanne had gotten engaged - or met even - and I spent most of a solid hour working on it last night. So, I think you're all going to really enjoy the next 45 minutes.

I've got two stories for you tonight. One of them is mostly true, and the other story is completely made up, and your job is to figure out which one is made up. And if you get it right, I will let you buy me a drink at the open bar later tonight.

So here's the first story. It was early February, 1987. I was about three months old, and I still remember it like it was yesterday. Arthur and I were sitting in the living room, playing chess and drinking iced lattes. And I was dominating, having just taken Arthur's queen with a masterful knight fork. I was a baby at the time, so I stuck the queen in my mouth.

It tasted like victory.

But that victory didn't last long, for soon enough the sky outside our window darkened, and storm clouds rolled across the sky, one of those big summer storms that always comes in early February. The wind howled and the tornado sirens wailed. The lightning flashed and the thunder thundered. We totally ran out of iced lattes. I curled up into a ball, scared and crying, snot running down my face. But Arthur just took me in his arms, wrapped me in his favorite blue blankie, and told me that he loved me, and that everything was going to be OK.

"Hush now, little brother," Arthur said. "Whatever happens, I'll be here with you."

I have no idea where my parents were at the time.

From that day on, I knew that Arthur loved me, and that he always would. No matter how many times I annoyed him, or how closely I followed him around the house. No matter how many fights we got into or toys we stole from one another. No matter how many times I whacked him with a plastic Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sword or how many times I curled up in a fetal position on the couch to avoid a well-deserved pummeling. No matter how many times I beat him at a board game, and he flipped the board over in anger in the middle of crowded Subway. And no matter how many of those pieces ended up in strangers' food. I never doubted for a second, that my brother loved me. He was my protector and my hero, the guy I wanted to be like, and the one who inspired me to better myself. He was my older brother, and he was and is everything that an older brother should be.

So here's the second story. This time, it's late May 2001. I'm about to be a freshman in high school; Arthur's about to be a junior. Like the last story, we were in the living room, but this time we were playing the greatest videogame of all time: International Track and Field, on Sega Dreamcast. Right before the start of the 100 meter dash, the doorbell rings, causing me to false start.

So I open the door, and standing on our porch are three young ladies. And not just any young ladies. Three of the best looking young ladies in our entire high school. And Rochester High School, if you don't know, is a massive institution with literally hundreds of students, many of whom are female. So you can imagine how good-looking these young women were.

Now, this is going to be a surprise for you, I know, but they weren't there to see me. They were there to see Arthur. So fast forward forty-five minutes: I'm sitting on the couch by myself, drinking an iced latte, while Arthur is outside, chatting up the young women on the porch.

And I realized something. I realized that my brother was sort-of a good looking dude. Girls were interested in him in a way they weren't quite as interested in me.

But, and here's my point, Arthur has always had a lot of girls interested in him. And like those girls on the porch, he let every single one of them walk away.

Until he met Joanne.

Joanne you are smart, you are obviously beautiful. You're fun. You're kind. You're a good dancer. Not quite as good as me, perhaps, and - let's face it - we all stand in awe of my wife's killer moves. But way better than Arthur anyway.

But of all those amazing qualities, what I like most about you, is that you make my brother happy.

Today, you both stood before God and all these people out here who wish I would shut up and get on with it, and you made a sacred vow to love and serve one another for the rest of your life. And as a married man of two years, I can promise you that nothing is more rewarding than loving and serving your spouse. Unless you have kids, of course, but I don't really know how that whole deal works.

So, we're here to celebrate the start of your new life together, the creation of a new family. And it may be that we don't get to see one another as often as we'd like in the coming years. But I promise I'll be thinking about you every day, and I'll be praying for you at least once every other week. It'd be more, but I'm trying to start a writing career, and I got my own problems. And with everyone else here, I'm excited to watch you guys grow together, and love each other.

So with that, I think I'll just wrap up 40 minutes early, and if you have a glass, please raise it with me. If you don't, just pretend. And let's toast the health, wealth, and happiness of this new family. Arthur and Joanne Jeffers. Cheers.

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Jordan Jeffers changed some names in this speech because of privacy is important. Feel free to give him electronic encouragement via the little Facebook and Twitter buttons below. It means more to him than you might think.

Dear Mother,

I think my website has been both a blessing and curse. All of my goblin stories tend to be rather intense and depressing, so it's nice to be able to write something funny and clever every week. It gives me a break from my ponderously solemn seriousness. Like a baby farting loudly at Mass. A good reminder that God has a sense of humor as well as a cross.

But it's also a curse at times, especially when I try to make my silly stories into serious and important things, which is really just a way of making myself into something serious and important. When that happens, I start to feel like I have to be clever all the time, instead of just being honest, and letting the truth do its thing.

Because it's a tiring thing, to be forever full of clever things to say. I'd much rather be full of cake. A rich, chocolate cake with vanilla frosting, the kind that's sort of fluffy and whipped and doesn't leave that weird film of sugar on the roof of your mouth. (How do they make that stuff? The world is full of marvels.)

But the truth is pretty light. It drifts through the air like a feather.

No, that's a bad simile. Actually, the truth is like a tiny speck of dirt floating in a glass of water. You know what I'm talking about. It's probably harmless, but you've got to fish it out anyway, just to be sure you're not swallowing a dead flea or a beetle leg or something. So you stick your finger in there to scoop it out, trying to pin it against the side of the glass maybe. But the water pushes it away before you can get it, and you end up chasing the little speck around and around, dirtying the water with your finger the whole time, until you finally snag and hold it up, dripping, and see that it's just a tiny black speck.

But really you don't know what the heck it is. That's truth.

You know my first blog was called "Whispers in the Earthquake." Not sure if you remember it. I only put a few things on there (mostly super-long essays about wizards) before grad school got in the way. But I really like the name.

I picked it because I had this overwhelming feeling that stepping into the Internet was like stepping into an earthquake, and my little blog was just one more whisper, ignored and unheard. I even wrote a little story about it - not a bad story, really, looking back. Though I was trying too hard to be clever with it.

So what's worth whispering in an earthquake? Good question. It's the question that I use to guide a lot of what I do. And really there are two different kinds of answers. One: You can whisper survival instructions: how to avoid falling glass, where the sturdiest desks are, where your hand is in the darkness. And then, once you're holding the other person safe in your arms, you can tell a few jokes, just to lighten the mood. 'Cause the power will probably be out for a while, and it's no good lighting candles in all that dust.

So I just whisper to the people nearest me, since they're the only ones who can hear. And maybe they'll pass it on down the line if they think it's particularly helpful safety advice. Or a particularly good joke. As long as I'm not too clever.

Hope the dog is doing well, and licking your hand on occasion.

With love always,

Your son Jordan

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Jordan Jeffers writes letters to his mother on the Internet because stamps are a form of witchcraft. Feel free to give him electronic encouragement via the little Facebook and Twitter buttons below. Peace.

Dear Mother,

I've been watching a lot of Game of Thrones recently, since Dad lent me his copies of the first two seasons. Normally, it would probably take me two or three years to get around to watching them. I still haven't finished Lonesome Dove, and y'all gave me that movie three or four years ago. But high fantasy is kinda my thing, and I liked Double-R Martin's books, so I've been moving through the show quicker than normal.

It's pretty entertaining. It's also pretty gruesome. The amount of violence is horrific, especially sexual violence. There are basically two kinds of characters on that show: cruel, disgusting, violent characters that take pleasure in tormenting people; and honorable, trustworthy, violent characters who don't take pleasure in tormenting people. It's hard to find a character that's worth rooting for, though there are plenty to root against. And, truth be told, I'm starting to feel like I did when I tried watching The Wire: like maybe this show isn't good for me.

Because I finish an episode, and I just feel like I've been kicked in the balls a few times, and spit on for good measure. I read an article a few weeks ago about the use of rape in adventure stories (The Rape of James Bond by Sophia McDougall, published by The New Statesman), and the author said she had to stop reading Martin's books because she got to a point where "I found I couldn't cope with rape as wallpaper."

It's a freaking great insight. It's also completely blind in its own way because sexual violence is just one form of violence. Maybe rape as wallpaper is relatively new, but murder, war, cruelty, and torture as wallpaper is as old as Shakespeare.

I'm not saying stories shouldn't have violence. God in heaven knows that there is violence in what I write. But sometimes violence can become so pervasive and constant in a story that it sort of fades into the background, and we forget about it. Think about any Rambo movie, for example, and you'll get what I'm saying.

This is part of the reason I like Quentin Tarantino movies. Because even though they all have a lot of violence, the violence is nearly always taken seriously, by which I mean, he draws your attention to it. He doesn't let you dismiss it, doesn't let it fade into the background.

Take Pulp Fiction, for instance. There's that scene where Vincent accidentally shoots Marvin in the face, killing him in a rather (ahem) explosive way. Everybody's reactions to this horrible thing are... nonchalant? Matter-of-fact? I'm trying to come up with a good adjective, but it's basically a weird combination of mild regret and mild panic. They don't seem to value Marvin's life at all, but they are concerned about the consequences of driving around L.A. with a dead body in the back seat.

Now, think about all the action movies you've seen where somebody gets killed and then essentially fades into the background. Their body crumples to the ground and then the camera cuts to our hero committing the next murder. If Tarantino wanted to do this, he could. He could blow Marvin's head off, let us all laugh at how surprising it is, and then move on.

But he doesn't. He refuses to let Marvin's deadness fade into the background. Instead, we're forced to spend the next thirty minutes or so dealing with his body, cleaning the blood and little bits of brain and skull out of the upholstery. Again, the characters deal with this as if it's little more than a pain in the ass, which is what makes the scene rather comic. But the movie is still essentially arguing that death has consequences, that the murder of a human is not something that can be shrugged off so easily. The extent to which Tarantino manages to make this point is usually the extent to which I like his movies, which is why I didn't particularly enjoy Kill Bill. Watching The Bride cut through the Crazy 88's draws attention to violence in a different way because it's so obviously absurd that it sort of forces you to think about what you're watching. But this is far less effective, I think, than figuring out what to do with Marvin's shattered head.

Even writing about this kind of stuff makes me feel sort of gross, which is different for me. When I was in high school violence hardly bothered me at all. It's only as I've gotten older (and gotten married to someone who physically can't handle violent movies) that I've become "resensitized" to all the evil present in our movies and books. And again, it's not that I want to remove all of this evil from our stories. It's present in the world, and we need to talk about it and fight it.

But I don't want it to fade into the background, to be taken as a matter of course. And I don't want to drag people through the muck in the name of "realism" or "grittiness" or even "great literature." I want the violence in my books to have consequences. And I want you to be able to read them without feeling sick afterwards.

Ugh, I'm going to look at pictures of puppies on the Internet now. Because puppies are cute. And puppies make me feel better.

With love always,

Your son Jordan

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Jordan Jeffers writes letters to his mother on the Internet because stamps are a form of witchcraft. Feel free to give him electronic encouragement via the little Facebook and Twitter buttons below. It means more to him than you might think.

Dear Mother,

Before I do anything in my life at all challenging or stressful, I like to read about it. It's an old academic habit, I guess, needing to study before the test. So I've read lots and lots of stuff about "the writer's life" the last couple of years. Pretty much all of them say the same thing. Something like:

So you want to be a writer! What are you, stupid? Do you have any idea how difficult that is? It took me twenty-six years just to write and publish this book you are reading. I was rejected by one hundred and seventeen publishers. I was rejected by eighty-six agents. I was rejected by Emily Shipley at my high school prom.

She was wearing a sparkly blue strapless dress and silver heels, drinking punch by the door with Tiffany Thicke, and I walked over and said, "You look beautiful tonight, Emily. Would you like to dance?" Isn't that good? That's good, right? She mumbled something about not wanting to leave Tiffany, so we stood there making awkward conversation for five minutes before I pretended I had to go to the bathroom and left. Then like, literally five minutes later she was dancing with Kip Freeman. Kip Freeman! His name is Kip.

But that's what life is like as a writer. The world is full of Emily Shipleys and Kip Freemans. All the Kips of the world will land beautiful dates in strapless blue dresses and six-figure book deals with major publishing houses. And you will come up with something brilliant and heart-felt and simple, something like "You look beautiful tonight, Emily. Would you like to dance?" and get rejected over and over again. You'll pretend you're going to the bathroom and get yourself a job as a barista or a substitute teacher, or maybe you'll luck out and land something at a library. And you'll saunter back to your friends and try to explain to them why you failed.

Can you handle that? Because if you can't, you should stop now. You should just stay with your friends on the opposite side of the room and make fun of people until after-prom, where you can eat six or seven tiny subs off the Subway party platter and concentrate on playing poker and blackjack for fake money. It's a much safer bet.

Or something like that. And I would read that and think, "Sure, maybe that applies to some people. But not me. I'm Jordan Jeffers. I started for my high school basketball team. I beat Super Mario Brothers 3 on NES. I have not one, not two, but three complete boxed sets of the Chronicles of Narnia. There's no Emily Shipley in the world that will say no to me."

But of course pretty much everyone has said no to me: the Emily Shipleys and the Tiffany Thickes alike. Maybe if you would have rejected me more as a kid, I'd be able to handle it better. We're still allowed to blame our own failings on our parents, right? That hasn't changed? 'Cause I'd really appreciate you taking the fall on this one.

Oh don't worry, I'm not quitting. Actually, I'm starting a novel in April, soon as we get back from Italy. It'll be beautiful and simple and real, and probably no one will like it but you and Madelyn. Emily Shipley certainly won't. But I don't care. I'll just ask someone else. The weird new girl in the copper skirt, maybe. She looks like a good dancer. Or maybe I'll just dance alone for awhile, and see if anyone joins me. Either way, at least I'm dancing. No more fake bathroom trips for me.

Hope you are doing well.

With love always,

Your son Jordan

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Jordan Jeffers writes letters to his mother on the Internet because stamps are a form of witchcraft. Feel free to give him electronic encouragement via the little Facebook and Twitter buttons below. It means more to him than you might think.

Dear Mother,

Thanks for following me on Twitter! You are now one of an exclusive eleven, along with such noted tweeters as @nicekindlesee, @sweatshoppepubs, and the UIS Volunteer and Civic Engagement Center. And yes, to answer your question, I was in control of the UIS Volunteer Center twitter account when I followed myself they followed me back in 2010. But it still counts!

That's how long I've had a Twitter account, since 2010, though I haven't actually started using it until now. So far I like the fake accounts of dead people (here's looking at you, @OldHossRadbourn) and this extremely creepy profile picture of Tony Larussa holding a kitten and a puppy. I also like how it's a mildly entertaining way to waste time.

Anyway, I noticed you haven't tweeted yet, so here's a list of tips to get you started:

1. Favorite or retweet everything I tweet. I mean everything. I'm surprised you haven't done this already actually. And a little disappointed [insert sad face emoticon]. Do you know how to favorite? Learn how to favorite.
2. Do not expect me to favorite or retweet you. It's unfair, I know, but this is how the parent-child relationship works. You give, I take. In return, I'll occasionally write you a letter and bring you the box of good chocolates when I come visit you and dad in the nursing home in 30 years. The real Fannie May chocolates. Even a whole box of vanilla creams, if you want them.
3. Don't self-promote. Get other people to do that for you.
4. Follow clever people. Unless you're a famous actress or sports writer, Twitter is basically just a contest between a bunch of random people to see who can be the most clever. So there are a lot to choose from. For example, me.
5. Don't insult nine-year old girls
6. Don't post naked pictures of your current/future grandchildren. Seriously, no matter how cute the picture is. They'll thank you in fifty years when they're running for President. Or in twenty years when they're trying to get a date.
7. See number 1.

Twitter is just like every other place on the internet. It's full of frantic, youthful energy, has tons of great information, and its own, techy dialect.

It also has lots of angry, bitter people who hover over everything like a cloud of hate, ready to let the world know that they're above all of us sincere people. So just don't follow that cloud. Or become a part of it.

Follow Barbie (@BarbieStyle) instead. She lives the fab life in 140 characters or less.

With love always,

Your son Jordan

P.S. I know that Dad is about as likely to create a Twitter account for himself as the dog, but do you think it would be OK if I made a fake one for him set one up for him that he could use in the future? I'll probably just do it anyway. I hear that once you get twelve followers, people start to take you seriously.

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Jordan Jeffers writes letters to his mother on the Internet because stamps are a form of witchcraft. Feel free to give him electronic encouragement via the little Facebook and Twitter buttons below. Peace.

I've noticed that when there are big changes and upheavals in my life, I tend to want to focus my energy on something small and unimportant, probably just to give myself some kind of sense of control, I suspect. Madelyn and I have that in common, actually. Occasionally I’ll come home from a hard day of work sitting in the library and making up stories about goblins to find her with a determined look on her face, vacuuming the floors or endlessly scrubbing off the charred bits of food that are welded to the burners on our stove.

“Tough day at work, hun?” I ask, trying not to stare at the gob of black gunk that has sprayed up onto her nose.

“No!” she says, cheerily. “Just have forty-three kids to schedule, and their teachers won’t get back to me, and my supervisor just told me we were getting at least four new students next week who need speech, and I’m supposed to do hearing screenings tomorrow, but I have no idea where, and they asked me to plan the district homecoming party again this year, and I’m pretty sure I’m pregnant, so I thought I’d finally get this oven clean for once.”

(Just kidding - about the her actually being pregnant part, not about the her saying she’s pregnant part. She says that about every other week.)

My own coping mechanism is much less useful than cleaning; I organize my email. Probably because it’s really easy, and I get to delete stuff. I like deleting stuff. Makes me feel cleaner. Healthier. Like scraping dead skin off of sunburn.

Well all this goblin writing and website building and career launching stuff was really stressing me out, so I started sorting my email again yesterday. I found one you sent me, maybe six months ago now. It was a link to an article - “Murdering Your Parents With Joy,” I think it was called, or probably something less offensive than that.

I do remember that the opening line was a quote from Aeschylus’s The Libation Bearers: “Shall I be ashamed to kill my mother?” How cheery! Wikipedia tells me this line comes right after Orestes walks in on the murder of his father by his mother, so that he is then faced with the necessity of murdering his mother to avenge his father. (Old Aeschylus had some smart things to say about the stupidity of revenge.)

The point of the article was that you couldn’t really be a healthy, independent adult unless you “orphaned” yourself in someway, if not by killing your parents like Orestes, then at least by refusing to talk to them on a regular basis. It wasn’t saying you would be better off if your parents were dead... but actually it kind of was. “Break free from me,” you wrote in the email. “Be your own man. I hope I never hold you back.” Etc. Etc.

This was an odd moment for me. It’s a bit of a paradox, you know. Because if I try to get rid of you, then I’m just doing what you say, so I’m not really rebelling against you at all. But if I don’t try to get rid of you, well then I am rebelling against what you say, but I’m still keeping you around. So I’m asserting my independence by not breaking free of you? Odd things to think about.

I think you just sent it because you knew I was starting this grand adventure of mine, setting off into the terrible land of freelance writing, where there be dragons. And I think you sent it ‘cause you love me, and want what’s best for me, even if that means you don’t get to see me. Like White Fang in White Fang.

So thank you for the nice gesture. No, I don’t want you to die, but it means a lot to me that you offered. I’ll set off into the world on my own if you really want me to. Though I’ll still write home on occasion, against your wishes. So there.

With Love Always,

Your son Jordan

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Jordan Jeffers writes letters to his mother on the Internet because stamps are a form of witchcraft. Feel free to give him electronic encouragement via the little Facebook and Twitter buttons below. Peace.