Something something rearview mirror blog posts 2009. This is continued from part three.

I told the world what happens when you feed a dog chocolate while he wears a tinfoil hat in the microwave.

My friend Mike (@cwgabriel) and I engaged in the great retweeting madness of 2009, which I totally won.

I went to Comicon and, uh, got excited:

… and that's when I saw that Joss Whedon was sitting in the front row. About ten feet from me.

Let's take a look inside Wil's head, shall we:

Me: OMG OMG OMG

Brain: What?

Me: JOSS WHEDON IS RIGHT THERE! HE CAME TO THE PANEL AND HE'S RIGHT THERE!

Brain: Okay, just be cool.

Me: OKAY I'M BEING COOL.

Brain: No, you're staring.

Me: What?

Brain: You're staring. Stop staring.

Me: Shit. Okay. I'm not staring now. [pause] HOLY CRAP DID YOU SEE THAT JOSS WHEDON IS RIGHT THERE IN THE FRONT ROW?!

Brain: Yes, you mentioned that. Also, you're staring again.

Eventually, I broke out of the loop, which in WhetonIX looks like: (if near.joss=1, do {stare.like.idiot} fi;), and I enjoyed the rest of the panel.

Anne turned 40, and we had a radical bitchin' 80s costume party for her.

I found an old photograph of the four of us from Stand By Me that unlocked a flood of memories:

I forget what day this picture was taken, but it was 1986, right after Stand By Me had been released. There we are, sitting on chairs in the green room, waiting to go be interviewed by (I think) Ron Reagan, Jr. It was my first trip to New York, and I remember how excited I was to go to that huge, almost mythical city, see Times Square, ride the subway, visit the Statue of Liberty, and hang out with Jerry in his home town.

[…]

I've always said that Stand By Me was so successful because Rob cast four young actors who were so much like their characters, but I think it's spooky how the four of us ended up being so much like our characters: River died too young, Corey struggled like crazy to get his personal demons under control, Jerry found success and happiness, and I'm a writer.

…I have had a fucking weird life, man.

My dog Ferris, who Anne rescued from a bus stop in Monrovia where she'd been abandoned when she was just a puppy got cancer, and died. It was absolutely devastating.

I saw Ferris' empty dish last night when I fed Riley, and it unleashed an agonizing wave of sadness so overwhelming, I dropped to the floor in our living room and cried as hard and as long as I ever have in my life.

After she was finished eating, Riley came over to me and sniffed at my face. Through my tears and gasping sobs, I told her it was okay, I just missed Ferris a lot and I was sad.

She rubbed her face against my cheek and trotted into the family room. A moment later, she returned with her soggy tennis ball, which she gently put into my lap. She looked up at me, and then walked into the corner of the family room, where she picked up her rope – her favorite toy, which she brings with her to the front door whenever we come home – and brought it over to me. She set it on the ground next to me, and then laid down and put her head in my lap. I cried for a good long time, but I was comforted by Riley's actions, even if I'm projecting my own feelings onto her. I felt like she could tell I was grieving, so she brought me the things that make her happy, before letting me cry on her until the fur on her neck was soaked with my tears. When I finally stopped, mostly because I was physically and emotionally exhausted, I felt a tiny bit better. 

Ferris was just eight years-old, and a huge part of our family. I still miss her every day.

I wrote some fiction, and released it as a limited-edition chapbook at PAX. It was my first foray into anything longer than a blog post, and scared the hell out of me to release. I still haven't decided if I'll publish it at Lulu like I did with Sunken Treasure.

I started a weekly podcast to
promote Memories of the Future called, appropriately enough,Memories of the Futurecast. It eventually got so fun and so popular, I gave it its ownwebsite.

When I was at PAX, Jonathan Coulton, Molly Lewis, and Paul and Storm sang a song to me. Just thinking about it now still brings tears to my eyes. It was one of the highlights of the year, if not the entire decade. Know what else I got at PAX? H1N1. Yay.

The third series of the D&D Penny Arcade podcast began. It, uh, didn't end too well for Aeofel.

In memory of Ferris, Anne and I held a fundraiser for the Pasadena Humane Society's Wiggle Waggle Walk. Due to the generosity of WWdN readers, we ended up raising more money than any other individual – almost $14,000. Because so many people contributed to our effort, the humane society asked us to walk a shelter dog. We loved him so much, we adopted him and made him part of our family. His name is Seamus, and he's awesome. Yes, he'll get his own post with pictures and everything, just not right now.

To be continued in part five…

I'm looking back at 2009 the best way I can: by posting excerpts of memorable things from my blog. This is continued from part two.

I wrote a funny story about playing minigolf with my wife:

"I can't separate how this place really looked in the '80s from how I want to remember it," I said. "I wonder if I've just idealized it, or if it really did look and feel fitter, happier, and more productive when I was a kid."

She drew her putter back, and left herself in as good a position as any to get the inevitable six on the goddamn volcano hole. Behind us, the freeway was a wall of white noise, occasionally broken by the rumbling of a downshifting semi. The pond to our left was covered with a blanket of brown foam, broken by the nozzle of a dry fountain.

"Of course it looked better when you were a kid," she said, "it was new then."

"I can't believe I never thought of that before. You're exactly right." I put my golf ball, yellow and worn, on the middle tee, feeling heat radiate off the heavy black rubber against the back of my hand. A gentle breeze carried children's laughter and the unmistakable smell of that particular kind of pizza they only serve at minigolf courses past us.

I got as sick as I'd been in years (right up until I got the H1N1 in August, actually) and had to cancel Penguicon. Again. I gave my friend Andrew a letter to read on my behalf since he was already there.

If I'd been just a few seconds farther down the freeway, I probably would have been involved in a horrific car crash because some guy was driving like an asshole:

I was in the number 2 lane, cruising along with the flow of traffic. I saw that the number 1 lane was slowing down a lot, so I slowed down too, just in case people whipped out of that lane and into mine. It happens all the time, because people drive like assholes.

Sure enough, some asshole was speeding down the number 1 lane, and I don't know if he wasn't paying attention or what, but he whipped around into my lane – about 100 yards in front of me, I suppose – over corrected, spun sideways, and T-boned a van. The van flipped onto its side, and the asshole driver sped into the carpool lane. I'm not sure if he crashed into the wall or hit his brakes, but he stopped and got out of his car. I expected to see a 20 year-old kid, but it was a man in a suit who appeared to be in his late 40s or early 50s.

The van, on its side, was about two car lengths in front of me. I realized that I'd been holding my breath, and my hands were shaking so hard I could hardly grip my steering wheel. Just when I snapped out of it and thought I should get out to help, the door of the van opened and the driver climbed out. I couldn't tell if he was hurt.

I picked up my phone to dial 911, and saw that every car around me was already doing that. I started to get out of my car, and I saw that about six or seven different people had already gotten out and were checking on the people who were involved in the crash. I decided that I'd just be in the way if I stopped, so – very carefully – I drove around the scene of the crash and – very carefully – I drove home.

I spent an incredible week in Portland, working on Leverage, playing a computer geek:

The costume designer is an incredibly kind and easy going woman. She was talking with me about who this character is, what he's like, and how those things would influence his decisions when it comes to his clothes. I was glad to have the discussion, because the clothes I wear for a show are very important to me. I always work hard to find something that is appropriate for the character, but that I'll also feel comfortable wearing.

She pulled a bunch of different shirts and things off the racks, and said, "So we thought we'd dress you like a nerd." She didn't say it unkindly, it was just matter of fact, the way you'd say, "You know, I think fish would be nice tonight."

I looked at the clothes she had in her hands: straight-legged jeans, slip-on Vans, a short-sleeved shirt with a collar and buttons.

"So, kind of like what I'm already wearing," I said.

I had a fantastic time bringing the character to life:

Most scripts have a scene that makes an actor go, "WOW, I really want to play this character so I can do that scene." This morning, I got to do that scene, and it was as challenging, fun, and ultimately rewarding as I thought it would be. I can't wait to see it in the final cut of the show.

Before we did that scene, I had a brief meeting with the director, because I wanted to make sure that my take on this character and his vision for the character had more in common than not. I performed some of the more important lines, talked about the arc I'd created in my mind, and made sure that we were on the same page.

He nodded while I did my thing, and when I was done, there was a long pause. I started to get a little nervous, and wondered if I was about to be sent home with a set of steak knives.

"You own this guy," he said.

I got to enjoy some unexpected improv:

We were shooting outside on a beautiful street up near the hills, southwest of downtown, and during one take a very friendly woman somehow got past everyone, didn't realize we were filming, and walked right up to me during a take.

She asked me a question that I can't repeat, because it would be sort of a spoiler. I noticed that nobody called cut, so I just stayed in character, answered her, watched her walk away, and then finished the scene. It wasn't quite "I'm walking here!" but it was still pretty cool.

I don't think we'll be able to use it in the show, because she was a civilian who clearly didn't know that we were filming, but it was exhilarating to just keep on rolling and keep on acting, even though something totally unexpected happened in the middle of the take.

Making television can be grueling, it can be frustrating, and it can be exhausting. I know how very lucky I am to have worked on a couple shows in the last year that haven't been like that, and I'm intensely grateful to be working on another one right now.

I went to Powell's with John Rogers and looked at D&D books:

"I just realized why these books and these games are so important to me," I said, pointing to all the D&D books that surrounded us.

"During a childhood that was completely abnormal, filled with things that I didn't choose for myself, these games were something I chose to read and play. These games were part of my normal."

"Oh, so you were like everyone else who played D&D when they were a kid," John said.

I smiled. "I guess so, yeah."

I was sad when I finished work and had to go home:

Whenever I finish a job, I feel some degree of sadness and loss. Working on a movie or doing a play gives me months to get to know the cast and crew, and when that journey ends, and we go our separate ways, I'm often the one who's cryin' now.

Guesting on a series, though, is a little different: I drop in for a week, and right around the time I've learned everyone's name, established some awesome running jokes, and started to feel like I'm part of the family, it's over. It guess it should be like ripping off a bandage but it's more like a different metaphor simile that I can't create at the moment; feel free to create your own.

As I wandered through downtown Portland I thought about the week, and how much fun I had while I worked on the show. I thought about how much I wanted to spend more time with this cast and crew, and I couldn't help but wonder how long it's going to be before I get to be an actor on the set again.

I don't know if I'll get to play Chaos (who, I decided, signs his name "C4[anarchy symbol] 05" when he autographs stuff at conventions while disguised as Wil Wheaton) but if they ask, I'll be there in a heartbeat.

To be continued in part four…

It's time for the annual look back at the year that was. This is continued from .

I saw Watchmen before it was released, and I loved it. When the screening was over, I got to be part of a Q&A with Watchmen's director:

Before I realized it, I was on my feet, getting in line, not to ask a question, but to make a comment.

When I approached the mic, I felt my hands get cold and I couldn't feel my feet. This is typically what happens to me when I'm really nervous.

I cleared my throat and said, "Hi, my name is Wil, and I'm from Pasadena."

He said, "Hey, I'm from Pasadena, too!"

"AWESOME!" I said, and felt stupid.

I steadied myself, as the entire theater faded away and all I could hear was the sound of my own voice, coming out of someone else, very far away. "I just wanted to tell you that I've wanted to see this movie for twenty years."

I took a breath, and was horrified to feel some very real emotion rising up in my chest.

"Oh fuck. Just say it and run away!"

"I just wanted to say thank you for making it worth the wait."

He said something, but I don't know what it was. I was too busy running away.

As I left the theater, and feeling returned to my hands and feet, I thought, "Shit. I forgot to tell him, "If they ask you to make Sandman, please say yes.'"

I doubt he'll ever read this, but just in case he does … Zack Snyder, this is Wil from Pasadena. If they ever ask you to make Sandman, please say yes.

In 2007, I worked on Criminal Minds, rapin' and killin' and gettin' killed real good. I kept a production diary while I was on the set, and included it in Sunken Treasure. When my episode aired in March, I got this crazy idea to create an audio version of the production diary, which I released on Lulu for just five bucks.

The fundamental concept behind Operation Crazy Idea is to publish more things, more often, at lower price points. The simplicity and immediacy of POD technology, the Long Tail, and Kevin Kelly's 1000 True Fans Model (I hate that term, but I love the idea behind it) have all worked together to make the first effort in Operation Crazy Idea, Sunken Treasure, a huge success.

This morning, I got a genuinely Crazy Idea that I've spent much of today creating: An audio version of my Criminal Minds production diary.

"Why aren't you just doing an audio version of the whole book?" You may ask.

"Well," I would say, "because that wouldn't be a Crazy Idea."

What is a Crazy Idea, though, is recording the whole production diary, adding in the usual asides and extras, ending up with something that's about 78 minutes long, and selling it on Lulu for $5.

"Why $5?" You say.

You ask a lot of good questions, person-who-I-made-up-who-is-different-from-the-person-I-made-up-yesterday.

From the first time I colored in my dice and died repeatedly at the hands of the Rust Monster in that one cave (you know the one) I have loved D&D. I've played several other RPGs over the years (most notably GURPS) but with the release of D&D 4E, I've fallen back in love with the system.

Fueled by the Penny Arcade Podcasts and the simple joy of learning a new(ish) system, I began a campaign for my son and his friends:

I haven't DMed anything in ages, and I haven't DMed 4E ever, so rather than start them out in Winterhaven with the events of H1, I started them out in Fallcrest, and planned to run them through a slightly-modified version of the first level Dungeon Delve. I thought this would be a good way for me to remember how to ride the bike, and a good way to introduce them to the new combat mechanics in 4E. And I'll be honest, here: I love a good dungeon crawl as much as anyone. Because I'm running this campaign for teenagers, I didn't think it was wise to dump them into serious roleplaying right away, and I'd use a play session that was primarily combat-based to get them comfortable with each other as players, and with me as a DM.

We had a lot of fun, and played for just under five hours. I had planned for about four hours, but I had to spend more time than I thought I would refreshing my memory in the DMG.

We sat around the table, and I began…

I did my best to make the experience a memorable one:

"Sorry, all you know is that this dragon is pretty pissed that you're in her lair, and the Kobolds down here," I pointed to the end of the corridor, "are coming toward you, now."

"Oh! It's a she!" Nolan's other friend said. "That's so cool!"

"The dragon moves her head back and forth on her long, slender neck. She cocks her head to one side and then to the other. Her lips curl back, as she slowly opens her mouth."

I glanced up at them. Their eyes were all wide.

"She rears back, and a blast of freezing cold dragon breath surrounds you!"

As I rolled for each of them, Nolan noticed the change in the music. "Did you do that on purpose?" He said. I told him that I had.

"That's really cool," he said.

I planted the seed for the rest of the campaign:

"When you return to Fallcrest, you go straight to Douven's office to share your triumph with him. When the door opens, though, you find his wife, standing alone. Her eyes are puffy and red, and she clutches a small holy symbol in one hand.

"'Douven … Douven is gone,' she says. 'He said that something terrible was happening near Winterhaven, but he wouldn't tell me what it was. He just said that if he didn't get there soon, it would be the end of us all!' She looks at you, expectantly." The music, which had been sort of triumphant and energized, had become soft and melancholy, another happy coincidence that I assured the kids was entirely planned in advance.

"Well, guys," Nolan's friend said, "I guess we're going to Winterhaven."

But, sadly, teenagers are flaky and playing D&D with your stepdad isn't nearly as fun as sitting in your room and clicking your mouse over and over again while you try to get armor to drop in WoW. Yes, I remain bitterly disappointed that we never played again, but I'm glad we played at all, because it was absolutely time well spent, and I was able to share some thoughts about things I learned while sitting behind the DM screen:

Today, I wanted to share some of the things that came to mind, as well as some other things from a lifetime of gaming that I hadn't thought about until this week. My hope is that this will be useful for DMs and players alike. I'd love it if you'd add your own comments, if anything related comes to your mind while you read this post.

First of all, in spite of our mistakes, we all had a lot of fun. As far as I'm concerned, the session was a HUGE SUCCESS as a result. The whole point of playing an RPG is to have fun while engaging the imagination, right? Mission accomplished, and not in the fake George Bush way.

Mostly, this session reaffirmed some of the core concepts that all DM guides share, fromGURPS to T20 to D&D and beyond. Among them are surprise! Fear! Ruthless Efficie – wait. Sorry. That's wrong. Put down the soft cushions and I'll try again.

I started a Flickr pool for my books, called Wheaton's Books in the Wild. Turns out my books have been to some very cool places.

I drew ascii dongs on my blog, as part of what I think is a pretty funny post about spammers and the people who believe them.

I played Whil Wheaton on Family Guy with the rest of the cast of Star Trek: The Next Generation.

I went to Emerald City Comicon in Seattle, and performed some stories for the nice people.

Anne and I went to the Nebula Awards dinner, where I presented the award for best script:

I wanted some kind of introduction, so a few minutes before I walked up to the podium, I came up with this:

"Everyone I know who is successful reads books. Everyone I know who is successful andinteresting reads science fiction and fantasy. As a parent, you can imagine how important it is to me that my kids read science fiction and fantasy, so I've used television and movies as a gateway drug.

"The nominees for Best Script are…"

I'm not going to lie: I felt pretty good about that, especially considering that I came up with it pretty much on the fly.

To be continued in part three…

The first time I did one of these posts in 2006, it was to secretly collect material I was thinking about including in The Happiest Days of Our Lives. It ended up being a lot of fun to look back at the whole year, though, and it created a nice introduction to my writing (which is one of those things we writers kind of need to have) so I did it again in 2008 (I'm not sure why there's no 2007 entry; I guess nothing happened that year and we all slept through it) and here I am, about to do it again in 2009.

So, without any further parenthetical statements (except for this one), let's begin:

I recalled The Great Wheaton Hockey Scandal of 1991:

My friends at CliqueClack did an interview with Dean Devlin, creator of the sensational new series Leverage. Dean and I played hockey on the same team (with, I've just now remembered, Adam Baldwin, also) from around 1989-1991. He was a forward and I was a goalie. One night in Burbank, our team gave up a breakaway near the redline. I saw it happening when the puck was still in the offensive zone, so I was ready.

When the other guy crossed our blue line, I was already way out of the net, near the bottom of the faceoff circle on my left side. I skated backward with him to force him to shoot on my terms. I guess I was near the crease when I saw him pull his stick back way over his head."Oh good," I thought, "he's just going to try to blast it past me. Those shots almost always go wide, or right into my glove."

The next thing I knew, there was an explosion in the rink, and a bright flash of light before everything went dark. When the lights came back on, I was on my knees, surrounded by a semicircle of skates. I pulled my helmet off, and watched a whole bunch of blood pour down onto the ice.

"Oh, the way it beads up is really neat," I thought. Then, "Wait. That's my blood." 

I bought my first Fark headline T-shirt and semi-coherently formulated a vigorous defense of myself as an actor living in the shadow of Wesley Crusher:

I am not Wesley Crusher, and when someone says, "Wesley Crusher is playing [Some Character], so, you know, go hate [That Character] without even watching him," it is both unfair and profoundly insulting to me. Imagine having something you've worked so hard to create being dismissed out of hand, because of completely unrelated work you did when you were a teenager – work that you had no control over – and you may understand why this is so upsetting to me. This has happened to me for years, and when I read it tonight – especially related to something like Batman, that I'm so proud of, that I know has a big crossover audience – It infuriated me. I've been subjected to this same tired line for 15 years, and I've really had enough of it. Live in the now, man!

My episode of Batman: The Brave and The Bold aired, and it was awesome. I didn't know it at the time, but I am the first voice actor to play Ted Kord in an animated capacity.

I went to Phoenix for the 2009 Phoenix Comic-Con, where I did a lot of neat stuff, but nothing was better than the epic awesomeness of playing Rock Band 2 with a bunch of my fellow nerds:

After playing Rock Band 2 for 2 straight hours and struggling though some songs I've never played before, I was worried that when the videos started making their way online, I'd look like an asshole who didn't know how to play fake instruments, and that everyone would laugh at me. But when I watch this video of us doing Livin' on a Prayer, all I see is the evening distilled to its essence: a lot of geeks having a lot of fun pretending to be rock stars on a real stage playing for a real audience, which is exactly what I hoped for when I planned it. I mean, we were up there playing 80s anthems, and there were people dancingin front of the stage. When I sang to a girl in the front row, she screamed like we were at an actual concert. For reals! It was so awesome, it was hard not to get caught up in the fantasy of the thing, and I don't think any of us who played the game spent more than 10 seconds fighting it. 

Even though I've been using Twitter since 2007, this was the year it really exploded. For reasons I will never understand, the gang at TwitterHQ put me on some kind of "people you should follow" list, and I watched my follower count double every day for several weeks. It was weird, and I thought it was best to tell everyone how I was going to disappoint them if they followed me:

…if I can make something painfully, embarrassingly clear before I begin: my whole idea here is to manage expectations and explain my own personal limits. I'm not trying to go on and on about how fucking cool I think I am and how you have to follow rules to follow me, or anything like that. I'm saying this now because some of the things down below, you may not want to hear. It's not you, it's me, and I hope you believe that.

I started new categories called From The Vault and Things I Love.

After making several improbable saving throws vs. Layoff at Propeller, AOL finally sent me off to the land of wind and ghosts in February. Initially, this was terrifying. I had a kid in college and one about to graduate high school, very little reliable work, and though I wasn't getting rich from AOL, it was at least something I could count on month to month.

Just like Scalzi, though, getting laid off by AOL ended up being the best thing that ever happened to me. It forced me to get serious about being a full-time writer, and left me no option but to take control of my creative and financial life by writing and publishing more work on my own. I started with Sunken Treasure:

Every year, before the summer convention season gets underway, I pull some excerpts from whatever I plan to release in the fall, take them to my local print shop, and make a deliberately lo-fi, limited edition chapbook to take with me on the obligatory summer convention circuit.

I’ve done previews of Dancing Barefoot, The Happiest Days of Our Lives, and Memories of the Future, but in 2008, I couldn’t excerpt my planned fall release, because it was so top secret, I would have had to print it on self-destructing paper, and while that would have made it a very limited edition, the costs associated were … prohibitive.

The thing about these chapbooks is that you can only get them from me if you come see me at a convention. Since I don't do many conventions, this leaves a lot of you — Europe, Canada, and the East Coast, I'm looking in your direction— without a chance to get your hands on one. Later this week, I will correct this glaring error, by releasing last year's chapbook, Sunken Treasure, via a print on demand system that works like this: you place an order, they print your book, and the service I use ships it to you. A couple of my friends have used the same service I'm using, and they're super happy with the quality of their books, the customer service, and everything about the whole process. Print on demand services used to be kind of sketchy, but they've grown up a lot recently, and I'm willing to give this particular one a try.

If this works the way I think it will, it's going to be super awesome for all of us as I release books in the future: You don't have to worry about me screwing up your order, I don't have to invest in a thousand books at a time, you get your book in a few days instead of a few weeks because I'm not shipping it myself, and I can spend more time creating new stories while remaining independent. Best of all, I'll have the time to write and release more than one or two books a year.

Sunken Treasure was more successful than I ever dreamed, got great reviews, and continues to sell very well in print and digital editions.

I introduced my son to the joy of a game called Button Men, and reintroduced myself to the even greater joy of playing with him:

I walked out into the living room and found Nolan sitting at our iMac, playing Diablo.

"Hey, it's too dark and cold outside to throw the frisbee," I said, "but at the dining room table, it's perfect for throwing dice."

He spun around in his chair. "Two minutes. Then you are going down."

"Awesome."

I walked back into my office, deliberately did not look at my desk, grabbed the bag of Button Men, and a bag of dice. I took them all out to the dining room, and untied the bag. I gleefully watched polyhedra spill out and clatter across the table.

"I hope that the simple act of watching dice fall always makes me this happy," I thought.

I looked up, and saw that Nolan was intently focused on his game. I picked up the bag of Button Men and gently shook it.

The buttons clattered. He did not turn.

I shook the bag harder. Still, he did not turn.

I shook the bag harder still, cleared my throat, and stomped my foot.

I think he's talking to you!

I noticed Nolan's shoulders were twitching just a little bit.

You win this round, kid, but I'll win when it counts.

"Dude! Come on!" I said.

He was smiling as he turned around and walked over to the table.

"I don' t know why you're in such a hurry to get owned," he said.

It's not about the game, it's about playing the game with you.

I told a story about playing T-ball while my dad watched. Well, I told it the way I remember it:

When I was six years old, I set foot onto on a T-ball diamond for the first time.

I was skinny, awkward and unsure of myself – basically a smaller version of the teenager I'd eventually become – and I didn't have very good coordination, but my dad loved baseball, and I knew that if my dad loved it, I loved it too, because that's the way things work when you're six.

It was the spring of 1978, when smog alerts were as common as reality shows are today, and hazy, reddish gold sunlight shone down on the field at Sunland Park. The sounds of other kids playing on the swings and in the giant rocket ship at the playground mingled with the smell of barbecue smoke as I stepped up to the plate to take my first practice swings.

My first swing connected with the middle of the tee. The baseball – in those days of gas lines and national malaise, we didn't have the soft RIF balls my kids got to play with – fell off and landed in the batter's box on the other side of the plate. The other kids giggled while the coach clapped his hands and shouted encouraging words to me as I picked the ball up and put it back on the tee.

I looked up and saw my father's expectant face through the chainlink fence near the dugout. I slowly and deliberately lifted my bat, held it out at arm's length, and aimed at the top of the tee with one eye closed. I stuck out my tongue and furrowed my brow. I tasted sweat on the corners of my mouth, and felt my heart beat in my ears.

The bat touched the ball, and it fell off again. The kids giggled again. The coach clapped again. I replaced the ball on the tee again.

"Come on, Willow," my dad said. "You can do it!"

To be continued in part two…

I spent a couple hours tonight going through my blog for the annual year in review series of posts. I thought I'd make two or three posts, but so much awesome stuff happened, I ended up with six – yeah, six – posts worth of stuff to pull out and comment on. That lead me to write this, which will come at the end of part six. (Exactly why I'm posting spoilers for my own blog posts that will publish in two days remains a mystery. I guess I'm just so happy and grateful for the good stuff that happened this year, I wanted to share that joy and gratitude right now.)

You know, it's really easy to look back on the year and only see the things I didn't do, the things I didn't finish, the stuff I missed out on, and the things that I failed to accomplish. In fact, it's really hard not to do that. But when I put this whole series of posts together, a pretty clear picture emerged: 2009 was an awesome year for me professionally, easily the best year I've had as an actor this decade. As a writer, I didn't do the fiction I wanted to do (again) but I released two books that people seem to like a whole lot, and began work on another. For the first time since I started this stuff, I finally feel – for real – like I can really make a living doing this stuff. I'm not getting rich (and it's not like I'm not trying, guys) but I'm not starving or struggling, either.

Over all, I'm grateful for my friends, my family, my health, my success, and that I get to share all of those things with millions of people (wow, that's weird) who I'll probably never get to meet, but who seem to genuinely care about all that stuff, and give me the wonderful gift of listening to me when I tell them stories about it. You're reading this, so you're probably one of those people, right? Well, thank you. I sincerely mean that.

Yeah, 2009 was a pretty good year, so I'm putting 2010 on notice: you've got some big shoes to fill, buddy. I think you should get on the phone with some people and get to work.

The 2009 year in review starts tomorrow morning, right here on this station. Now, stay tuned for your local news.