Still Just a Geek, page 33
So.
Let’s get started, shall we? This weekend, Anne and I went to the mall to pick up some fancy pants I had tailored.* While we were there, we noticed that the big old men’s clothing sale was happening, yadda yadda yadda I got three awesome suits for less than the cost of one, if they weren’t on sale.
Guys: It turns out that your beautiful wife telling you, “WOW, you look great in that suit,” is a powerful motivator for buying that suit. And two others. Because reasons.
After we were finished getting them tailored, Anne had to get on the phone to handle a bunch of #VandalEyes business,* so I went into the bookstore until she was done. On my way to the science fiction section, I stopped to take this picture of their tabletop game section.
While I was taking this picture, a young man cautiously approached me. “Mr. . . . Mr. Wheaton?” he said.
“That’s me!” I said.
“I love your show TableTop! You are the reason my friends and I play games, and I’m actually here today to find something for one of them.”
I put my phone into my pocket. “That is really awesome,” I said. “The main reason I make TableTop is to inspire other people to play games.”
He swallowed, nodded, and said, “Um, would you, uh . . . would you help me pick out a game for my friend?”
My heart grew three sizes.* “I would love to do that!”
I asked him a bunch of questions about the games they like to play together, his friend’s level of experience, and how much he wanted to spend. Ultimately, he settled on Ticket to Ride.* He shook my hand, thanked me several times, and walked away, happily.
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” a voice said behind me. I turned and saw a young woman with a name tag that indicated she worked in the store.
“Yes?” I said.
“This is my section,” she said, pointing to the games, “and it’s here because of your show, TableTop.”
My heart grew another three sizes.*
“We order all the games you play on your show, and we usually sell out of whatever you’ve just played right away.”
“That’s really cool!” I said.*
We talked about the games that she had in the section, and I recommended a few new ones for her, including Hive, Love Letter, and Coup.
“I’ll see if I can convince my manager to let me order those,” she said. “Anyway, I don’t want to take up any more of your time. I just wanted to thank you for your show, and for everything you do.”
“It’s my pleasure,” I said, “and it really means a lot to me that you took the time to tell me that.” I started to walk back to the sci-fi books, and stopped. I turned back. “If your distributor doesn’t know what’s coming up on TableTop—and they should, but if they don’t—please e-mail me and I’ll give you the release schedule, so you can know what to order.”
“That would be great,” she said.
“Awesome.” We shook hands, and I walked back to the sci-fi section. Before I could really figure out if I was going to get anything, my phone chirped in my pocket. It was Anne. She was finished with her business and didn’t want to go on a quest to find me in the store. “I’ll be right out,” I replied.
I walked past that tabletop game section, which was absolutely huge—even bigger than the entire sci-fi and fantasy book section, combined—and a little voice in my head said, “It’s okay to feel a little proud about this.”
I listened to it.
I’m still frustrated and disappointed when I see a character on a TV show or in a film that I clearly could have played, but didn’t even get to audition for (a casting director recently told my agent that they would not even see me for a role, because “Wil Wheaton can’t play someone in his late thirties,” even though I’m forty-one, with two children in their twenties, and just letting me spend thirty fucking seconds in their goddamn office to see how I look now and how I interpret the role may change their mind).* I’m still frustrated and disappointed that I haven’t produced any original work of fiction of any consequence in a year, and that I haven’t finished Memories of the Future, volume 2.
BUT—and it’s a big but*—instead of focusing on those things, and feeling like I’m being crushed into a singularity by a black hole of depression, I can look at the show I created and brought to life with some very talented people, that is having a very real and lasting impact on a lot of people, in a very positive way.
When I look at the writing I haven’t finished, I can look at the calendar and see all the times I was working on a video game or an audiobook or an animated show, and was on the road to promote TableTop, and honestly accept that there just wasn’t that much time to write the things I wanted to write, because I was busy working on other things.*
I can stop being so hard on myself, and I can stop judging myself, and I can stop holding myself up to standards that are so high, even the people I’m comparing myself to every day would have a hard time reaching them.
Or, at least, I can try, and I can do my best, because that’s all I can do.*
THOUGHTS AND REFLECTIONS*
I have thoughts. Sometimes I reflect on things.
Here’s some proof.
Truly, I like these stories because I feel like I got to stretch out a bit in terms of what I was writing about, and how I was writing it. I think of writing as a craft that I’m always going to be honing and refining and working on to get better, and I wanted to share some of that with you (especially the aspiring artists).
Also, check out how deep my thoughts can be. Like a regular Jack Handy over here.
The Glint of Light on Broken Glass
This is one of my earliest childhood memories.
It is long before I had any siblings.
I’m probably three years old. It is the autumn of 1975.
I live in the northwestern San Fernando Valley, on Topanga Canyon Boulevard, just a couple of miles south of Spahn Ranch. The Valley is largely undeveloped where we live, and what is developed is mostly farmland. In the nineties, I will be that guy who says “When I lived here, this was all farmland . . .” while he sweeps his hand across the view of endless development. I will be that guy every time I drive down Topanga. I will spend the rest of my life missing the quiet simplicity and wide-open space that I took for granted as a child, while also accepting that taking things for granted is what children do best.*
So it is in the early evening. The air is warm, but a hint of a chill occasionally swirls around us on a light breeze that barely moves the dry air. I’m standing between my parents, my mother holds my left hand, my father holds my right hand. We are in the yard that separates our little house—a chicken coop* that had been converted into a home—from the big farmhouse that my great-grandparents live in. It is their backyard, our front yard, and my entire world. I will spend hundreds of hours on that lawn, listening to Star Trek Power records on my portable plastic record player, in a teepee that my dad makes for me out of blankets and broomsticks. It will be every planet in our solar system, and every planet I create in my imagination.
We are next to the walnut tree that will be struck by lightning in a few months. That tree will split in two, catch fire, and the part that falls to the ground will narrowly miss destroying our home. The fire will be extinguished by the rain before the fire department arrives.* We stand there, the three of us, beneath the bare branches of that tree, its crisp leaves crunching beneath our feet. We look to the eastern horizon, and we look at the moon.
The moon is as big as the entire sky. It covers the horizon, impossibly massive. It is yellow and the seas and craters are so big, they look like continents. The moon is so big and so bright, it frightens me, but my father soothes me, tells me that it’s far away, in space, and that we are safe. We stand there, my parents both younger than my children are now, and we marvel at an optical illusion that I will never forget, and never experience again in my life.*
That was the moment that I fell in love with space. That was the moment that the moon stopped being a thing in the sky and became a place I could maybe touch one day. From that moment, I wanted to learn everything I could about space. I would read Let’s Go to the Moon with my grandmother as often as she would allow it. I would make rockets out of everything I could get my hands on, and imagine riding them into space. When Star Wars came out a few years later, I wanted to see it because it was about people who lived in space. When I finally got to work on Star Trek, even the longest day with the worst dialogue in the first season was amazing to me, whenever I stood on a set and looked out through a window into a fake starfield,* because I got to pretend that I, too, lived in space.
I grew up. A lot of things changed in my life, but I never stopped loving space. I never stopped looking up into the dark sky and imagining that, someday, maybe I’d go there and come back.
Today, I found out that I kind of get to be in space and live right here on Earth . . . because an asteroid has been named after me.* It’s asteroid 391257, and it’s currently in Canis Minor.** As soon as it gets dark here, I’m going to walk out into my backyard, look up into the sky, just a little above Sirius, and know that, even though I can’t see it with my naked eye, it’s out there, and it’s named after me.*
Tide Pools
Anne and I were standing at the edge of some tide pools, watching tiny fish swim around in them.
“They look just like little versions of the fish we see on the reef,” I said.
“I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what they are,” Anne replied.* A wave crashed against the rocks nearby, and the water near our feet gently rose a few inches. As the tide ran out, it created a small current between two tide pools, drawing some new fish into the one we were watching. They swam around together, like they’d always been there.
“You know how I like to think about nature being really simple?” I said. “Like how it just repeats little things over and over again to make bigger, more complex things?”
“Like when you talk about fractals?” she said.* Another wave hit the rocks, splashing brilliant white foam into the air.
“Yeah, sort of,” I said. “So let’s look at these tide pools, and consider that the fish who live in them have no idea that, just a short distance away, is the entire ocean, and it’s filled with giant versions of themselves.”
“It’s not necessarily a short distance for them,” she added.
“Dammit. You’re right. That messes this up a little bit, but go with me for a second.” I put my hand into the water and the fish darted away. “These fish may not even know about the fish one tide pool over, separated by a few inches of rocks, unless the tide pushes or pulls them there.
“So. Imagine that we are in this tide pool, and we have no idea that there’s a huge ocean just a short distance away. Or imagine that something is looking at us in this tide pool, and we have no way at all to even perceive that they are there.”
“Woah.”*
“Right? And the tide pool can’t exist without the ocean, and the tides can’t exist without the moon, and the moon can’t exist without the Earth, and the Earth can’t exist without the solar system . . .”
She looked at me, and I trailed off.
“I’m just saying, I think it would be neat if we humans could get out of our tide pool, someday. I’d like to see what’s on the other side of the rocks.”
She clasped my hand in hers. “Let’s go for a swim.”*
Starry, Starry Night
While looking for something in my documents folder, I came across this in an old drafts folder. It looks like it was written in winter about five years ago, and I’m not sure if it was ever published, but even if it was, I like it enough to repost it today.*
I stayed up until almost one this morning, reading comic books.
I know, it’s like I’m twelve all over again. And it’s awesome.*
Around four, Anne woke me up.
“What’s wrong?” I said, while I was still waiting to clear immigration between Dream-land and Reality.*
“Nothing. I just couldn’t sleep, so I got up and went outside to watch the meteor shower. It’s really cool, and I knew you’d want to see it.”
I sat up, pushed the covers to one side, and ignored the grumbling protests of our dog, who had just lost his primary source of warmth and cuddling.
“It’s cold out, though,” she said, “so put something warm on.”
I grabbed a hoodie and put on my totally-not-lame-but-always-make-me-feel-self-conscious-to-wear-them slippers.* I walked through the dark house, past the quiet and strangely comforting hum of my aquarium’s filter,* and out onto our patio.
I know it’s cliché, but the stars were brilliant jewels against a field of black velvet. Betelgeuse* was a brilliant red. The Orion Nebula was bright and fuzzy. Sirius, in Canis Major,* was such a bright blueish-white I couldn’t look directly at it. To the north, Ursa Major dominated the sky, and I could even see Mizar without any effort. Back on Earth, a distant train’s whistle sounded from far away, probably from the train yard near Commerce.
“You just missed a fireball,” Anne said quietly. She pointed to the eastern sky and added, “And there have been tons of little flashes from over there, too.”
I wrapped my arms around myself to stay warm and let my eyes roam across the sky. I didn’t see any fireballs, but I saw lots of meteors fly across the sky, greenish and yellowish trails flashing then fading behind them.
Maybe it’s because I wasn’t entirely awake, or maybe it’s because I’d been reading about mutants and other worlds before I went to sleep, but as I looked up into the sky, toward Castor and Pollux,* I really felt, for the first time in my entire thirty-eight years on this planet, the overwhelming vastness of the universe.
Where I have always felt awe, I felt small. Where I have always felt inspiration, I felt vulnerable. “I’m on a planet, spinning on its axis, racing around a star, moving faster than my mind can comprehend,” I thought. “And right now, that planet is flying through ancient asteroid debris, bits of dust and rock smacking into its atmosphere like bugs against a windshield.”
I felt a little freaked out.
I’ve quoted Carl Sagan’s Pale Blue Dot so many times, I don’t need to look it up anymore to get it right,* but last night, looking up into the enormity of the universe, it was suddenly more than poetry and a reminder to take better care of each other.
I moved closer to Anne and put my arms around her. She leaned her head back against my chest and we looked up into the sky together, watching faint meteors streak across the sky every few seconds.
“I’m glad you woke me up,” I whispered. “Thank you.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t get to see the fireballs,” she said.
“Nah, it’s okay. I didn’t need to.”
The train’s whistle sounded again. This time, it didn’t seem so far away.
We stood there and watched the sky for several minutes, until our hands and feet were numb with the cold, and went back inside.
When I got back into bed, I pulled the covers up over my head, and tucked them around myself as tightly as I could. It took a long while for sleep to reclaim me.
ON BEING A GEEK
The title of this book in your hands is Still Just a Geek. It’s a play on the original title, Just a Geek (in case you didn’t pick up on that already). But it’s also an affirmation of what it means to be a geek. Or, at least, what I mean by it.
I’m proud of who I am. I’m proud of what I achieved. I’m not ashamed of the things I love or am passionate about or can talk your ear off for hours even though it’s all technically make-believe.
I’m a geek, and I’m guessing you are, too.
And it’s all good.
My Keynote to the 2016 MENSA Annual Gathering
This is a slightly edited copy of my prepared remarks for the Mensa Annual Gathering. These remarks are meant to be heard and performed, so some of the nuance may be lost in the text.
MENTAL HOPSCOTCH: IF I’M SO SMART, WHY IS MY BRAIN SO DUMB?
When Mensa invited me to speak to you tonight, it was easy to say yes. Though I am not a member—and I’ll get to that in a minute—my son is. In fact, he took and passed the test when he was sixteen, the youngest in his group. Joining Mensa was something he’d wanted to do since he was in sixth grade, and because I am a loving and supportive father, I thought that I’d help him prepare. I was in GATE, then AP, then honors, then Starfleet, so I figured that I could be a useful resource for him . . . and holy shit was I wrong. It was a humbling moment for me, eleven years ago, when I discovered that not only did my son not need my help, but I was wholly unable to give it. Like, I’m a smart guy, but as far as I am concerned, the Mensa test may as well be administered in Aramaic to subjects who are blindfolded and underwater. On Europa.*
What I remember from the practice tests I looked at and then quickly ran terrified away from was that they tested my ability to reason and extrapolate the solutions to problems both complex and relatively simple, often from incomplete information. I didn’t have too much trouble with that part of it, but it was the math that killed me, because even though I’ve tried over and over again since I was in third grade, when it comes to math, I am talking Malibu Stacy.*
Still, I accepted this invitation to speak tonight because if one of my fundamental rules for living a successful and happy life is: don’t be the smartest person in the room, its corollary is: if you look around and see that you are the smartest person in the room, find a new room.* This is the only way you keep growing and challenging yourself to be the most interesting human you can be.
The thing about that is . . . well, when you’re literally put on a pedestal in front of that room? It’s . . . really fucking terrifying to stand here. What could I possibly tell a room full of people who are smarter than me? Something geeky? Okay, that’s . . . well . . . right. Something geeky. Talk about something geeky that’s going to be relevant to a massively diverse group of people who probably aren’t judging me, but I’ll just proceed as if they are because that’s how my stupid brain works.
