Our First-Draft Selves...Our Tenth-Draft Selves

When I first heard the news that a second Harper Lee novel was going to be released, I did an actual jig. Even though I am not much of a jig-dancer, I did. (I created my own jig, which probably would have made the Riverdance professionals hang their heads low in embarrassment on my behalf.) Yet, as journalistic reports and media coverage of Lee's hotly-anticipated second novel, Go Set a Watchman, came out, I began to view the release with a certain sense of ethical dread. 

Was this what Ms. Lee wanted?

Was it about money for those involved on her behalf?

Why was the novel only being released after the death of Lee's close confidant and handler in all legal issues, her sister Alice Lee?

But as the release approached, I knew that I would have to read the book. My first thought: I'll put my name on the library waiting list so I don't have to necessarily support the whole Lee-being-taken-advantage-of-for-money possibility, etc.

So I put my name on the waiting list, and BAM! There I was: 298th in line for our town of Acton, Massachusetts.

But I was resolved to wait it out.

Until I wasn't. I was on my way home from the library one day and my car kind of drove itself to our local indie store, Willow Books. There, I purchased a copy of Go Set a Watchman, went home, and promptly read the thing as fast as possible.  

Like many readers who once idolized the heroic and calmly brave Atticus Finch, I cringed as I read about him in this semi-sequel. I finished the book, and I almost as though it was my own father who had been pretending--and many years later I had found out who he really was, what he really believed. 

And I mourned--for a little while--the fact that I had even named my own character in The Looney Experiment after him: Atticus Hobart! An eighth-grader who learns what real courage is all about. I saw the "new" Atticus through the eyes of my own Atticus, and I could hear my character asking, WHAT DOES THIS SAY ABOUT ME!!??

I tried to calm him down, let him know that everything was going to be okay. That his courage is still courage. But when I read an article about an actual couple changing the name of their seven month old baby after Watchman was realeased because they no longer wanted him to be named Atticus, I admit I lost some sleep. 

After all: I couldn't change the name of my eighth-grader! And he certainly felt like a real son to me. 

And then I proceeded to devour every news story released about the saga. And my heart kind of flooded over with a certain gratitude when I read about Tay Hohoff, Lee's editor for To Kill a Mockingbird. From all evidence gathered, The New York Times did an incredible job of painting the scene: Mockingbird had been the EVENTUAL draft--the final draft--of Lee's masterpiece. But Watchman had been the first foray. It was only through Hohoff's extensive revision requests and effusive encouragement that Lee was able to get to many drafts later and the masterpiece we have come to know. 

In essence: First-draft Atticus Finch was not the man that later-draft Atticus became. And it was only through the insight, counsel, and support of an astute editor that we came to meet the real Atticus Finch. 

I began to think about this in terms of my own character, Atticus Hobart. And I realized that, at the start of The Looney Experiment, he is definitely his first-draft self. He is terrified of life: of speaking up in class, of talking to AUDREY HIGGINS, or being real with his Dad, of using his voice in any way to speak his truth. 

But Atticus Hobart doesn't stay there. His first-draft self is not his finished self.

And then I began to think about myself, too. And about the people I love. And I realized that we all long to grow from our first-draft selves. We try things, we get it wrong. We try again, we get it wrong again. We make mistakes, mess up, miss opportunities, remain silent when we should speak, speak when we should remain silent, attack when we should repent, repent when we should attack--and so on. 

We all mess up, and were life a courtroom drama, I suspect we'd all be found guilty of a jury for all of the above. For our missed moments and our unkind actions. But the thing is, life is more a novel than a courtroom drama. We get to see our first-draft selves and then we're not stuck with them. We get new chapters, new revisions, new drafts--and we get the chance to create second-draft, third-draft, fourth-draft...tenth-draft selves. 

And the truth is, this process of getting to out next draft-selves is a lot easier if we've got someone supporting us. We can't do it alone. Just as Lee had her editor, Hohoff, to help Atticus Finch become his best-draft self, we too need others to love us, challenge us, hold us, push us, see us, and--especially--see what we can yet become. 

Sometimes, I remind my character, Atticus Hobart, of this fact. Atticus, you don't have to be like anyone but yourself. You are free to become the best-draft of yourself that you can be. 

And I sometimes remind myself of this, too. 

We are all masterpieces--classics of a sort--waiting to become a new draft that is just a little bit stronger, a little bit bolder, a little bit braver. And we all need someone to help us along that road. 

In this way, I see Atticus Finch in a new way. No longer do I view him as a perfect model of sensitive strength. Instead, I view him as a draft--because now I know where he began in Watchman, and how far he came along to get to Mockingbird. 

I too have a long way to go and a long way to grow. Atticus Hobart does. We all do. And the good news is, that's a journey worth taking. That's a journey worth talking about, writing about, and believing in--no matter how long it takes. 

The Looney Experiment: A Cover and a Quandary

I have been reading voraciously over the past week as the news of Harper Lee's second (first) novel, Go Set a Watchman, unfolded. What began as elation about my favorite author's new (old) novel that would be released this July transmogrified into worry and doubt--Does she want this? Is she being taken advantage of?--and then has settled somewhere along the lines of either a humble ignorance or an ignorant humility.

Still not sure which.

Of all the articles that have come out--from incredibly keen observers and analysts in national newspapers around the country to insightful authors and speakers who have aired their opinions on great programs like News Hour--I've come away knowing only one thing: I have no idea what Harper Lee really wants.

And I am becoming more comfortable with simply not knowing. As my first novel is being prepared--copyediting occurring right now!--I am left with a deep sense of irony, too.

The novel is called The Looney Experiment, and it follows the journey of 12-year old Atticus Hobart. It has the heart and humor of everything I've learned about life, twelve-year olds, and courage. And much of what I've learned comes from two people: Mr. Robert Looney, my real-life fifth grade teacher, and Ms. Harper Lee, who penned the book that gave my soul a figure like Atticus Finch to ponder, aspire towards, and appreciate.

So, as the cover for The Looney Experiment is now final, my processing of the news about Harper Lee is anything but. In the next months, we will probably learn much more. And many more brilliant thinkers and friends and writers will share their ideas and insights.

In the meantime, I'm simply grateful--grateful to have had the chance to write a novel that tries to explore the life a middle-school kid named Atticus, and a crazy, old teacher named Mr. Looney. And I'm grateful that the fictional journey of these two characters was--and continues to be--inspired by two characters from my own life to whom I owe a huge debt.

The Darkest Day of the Year

Today in England, the sun set at about 11:25 am. Okay, seriously: the sun set at 3:30 in the afternoon. (Though it sure felt like 11:25 in the morning.) But it rose at about nine o' clock, and for those six and a half hours, we looked up at a sky that drizzled us with mocking rain and then laughed through a thick layer of clouds.

For other reasons than the fact of absolute minimal sunlight, today--and this past week--has been very dark. I grew up in Connecticut, and hearing the news about Sandy Hook rattled me. Like many people, I found myself weeping.

In the flurry of articles that have come out in this past week, none is able to articulate exactly why this kind of tragedy is pepetuating itself over and over again. But one area that continues to go unexamined by most social theorists and also those in the media is the area of gender. Jackson Katz and Byron Hurt are doing their part to discuss why of the 62 mass killings on American soil, 61 of them have been commited by men. Katz powerfully reasons that if the opposite were true, and 61 of the 62 mass killings had been perpetrated by women, all we would hear and read would be about the gendered nature of the crimes.

As a society, the way we socialize men is dangerous and we see this over and over again. The 61 mass murders are the highest form of the tragedy, but every day we see lesser versions--no less horrendous to the victims, however--of gendered violence: we see men killing men in gang warfare; we see men fighting men for pride, revenge, or to prove their masculinity.

In essence, we see men learning repeatedly--from father, from film, from heroes and mentors--that the only way to be a man is to be tough, violent, and aggressive. Men are not revered for their compassion, gentleness, empathy, and their tears.

I think one reason why Harper Lee's Atticus Finch stands so tall after all these years is that Lee artciluated through fiction an idea of what genuine strength in masculinity could look like.

It could look like going against the bullying culture so many men are bred into and indoctrinated towards. It could look like self-reflection rather than blame. It could look like an end to attacks and harassment (whether through words or actions) and a commencement of authentic listening--asking what it's really like to walk in the shoes of other people, whether minorities, females, homosexuals, or transgendered people.

Until we come face to face with a fraction like 61/62, we are going to be missing an underlying cause of the violence we continue to see in every city of every state of our country. Masculinity does not have to be defined by aggression, violence, tough-talk, and lack of empathy.

After the sun had set today, Jennifer and I watched Tyler run back and forth through our kitchen and hallway as we blasted Enya's Winterland CD. He was laughing, running, laughing, running, giggling.

Tyler is four years old.

He is my son.

The question I am faced with as a father, and the question we are all faced with as members of an American society, is this: How we can we teach boys that to grow into men does not mean to lose one's ability to giggle, to weep, to show compassion, empathy, tenderness, and vulnerability?

It is time we make heroes not only of those who hold a gun--whether in films or in real life--but also of those who hold a hand. If we can learn, as men, to move forward hand in hand--vulnerable, honest, authentically strong--rather than as aggressive lone rangers, I think American society will see massive shifts. Our darkest days--no matter when the sun sets--may yet transmogrify into our brightest possibilities.

Choose the Spoon: Reflections on Imperfection after Two Years Dreaming

Two years ago today, I had my first and only panic attack. Jennifer and I and our almost-two-year-old, Tyler, had flown red-eye from Boston to London, then taken an hour-and-a-half taxi ride from Heathrow Airport to the Kings Crossing train Station that cost us about half our savings. Then, the train ride into York cost us the other half of our savings.

We had chased down a dream of ours, and we arrived (finally) into York amidst cascading waterfalls from the skies (some people call this "rain"), a massively overtired toddler, basically no money, and a whole heck of a lot of hope. We were changing roles, changing countries, changing cultures, and we were (to be honest) pretty naive about the whole thing. My mantra was, It'll work out.

When the panic attack arrived that night at three in the morning two years ago, a question had arisen in my mind responding to the mantra--simply, this: What if it doesn't work out?

And, as it turns out, a question like this at three in the morning doesn't exactly bring peace. Or hope. or trust. Or really anything good. Finally, Jen helped soothe the attack, and I fell asleep. But the following weeks were filled with that nagging question, What if it doesn't work out?

Fast-forward two years. Jen and I are standing in the kitchen our our little rented home, and fireworks are going off. I'm not talking figurative fireworks; I'm talking a real-live firework show occurring a stone's throw from our kitchen window. Reds, yellows, blues--all sparkling and blasting and booming. And Jen and I can't think of any occasion.

So we decide something: it's our two-year anniversary of chasing down a dream--even though it may have seemed half-baked at the time. Because it had to be half-baked. If we had fully baked that dream two years ago, we would have pulled it out of the Oven of Reality Checks, stuck a fork in it, and remarked, Whew! That baby is toasted! No good!

Two years later, life still hasn't afforded us much more certainty--except, maybe, a line that Atticus Finch constantly told his children: It's not time to worry yet. The more practice we have trusting, waiting, hoping, and believing that things will be alright, the more we learn to, well, trust, wait, hope, and believe that things will turn out alright.

Tyler: Looking UP!

In her stunning novel, Middlemarch, George Eliot shares this quip: "Even Milton, looking for his portrait in a spoon, must submit to have the facial angle of a bumpkin." Maybe the greatest English poet of all time can't withstand the force of certain reflections, and would have to deal squarely with his own imperfection. I guess this is true of all of us: in one way or another, we're all bumpkins. And we either accept that fact about our experiences, our dreams, our views, saying, It's not time to worry yet, or we don't.

After two years of this adventure abroad, I choose the spoon. Because when all is said and done, I think the spoon prevents a panic attack much better than a crystal clear mirror. Sometimes, we don;t need to see and understand everything perfectly; rather, we need just enough to get by, just enough to keep taking one step of faith after another. And maybe, we bumpkins can laugh a little while we walk.

A Real Man?

This week, a friend and I watched Clint Eastwood's film Gran Torino--and the premise of a tough, old white guy who's learning to embrace new culture, new tenderness, and new possibilities about masculinity was all intriguing to me. But the tragedy of the film wasn't in the final scene, when Eastwood's character offers up his life in a pacifist sacrifice to stop the cycle of death in his neighborhood. As moving and incredibly poignant as that moment is, the tragedy of the film occurs earlier, when Eastwood's character takes the young learning-to-be-a-man Tao to his local barbershop so that he can learn how men talk.

And, watching the film, the moment that became the deafening defeat, for me, was when Tao and Eastwood walk into that barbershop. The barber--whom Eastwood has prefaced as a "real man"--is sitting on his chair, waiting for business, looking through a porn magazine.

The Education of a "Real Man"
in Gran Torino (which begins with porn use)

The magazine is never referenced by any of the characters, though. No one talks about it. But the fact that Eastwood's character has already denigrated Tao for his weakness and complete lack of "real" manhood sets up the barber as the definition of the authentic thing: masculinity in action. As viewers, we're prepped for the scene and we're supposed to laugh at Tao in his weak attempts to become a real man. Yet, this question is paramount to how our culture views men: can we really become "real men" by using pornography? Do we men reveal strength and courage by purchasing a glossy magazine for a few bucks in which women are made to look like meat and overt notions of domination, subjugation, oppression, and misogyny are rampant?

The barber's answer--and by extension, Eastwood's character in Gran Torino--is a resounding yes.

But the real paradox of this moment is that, only a few scenes prior, Eastwood's character watches from his front stoop as a middle-aged woman drops her groceries on the sidewalk as she's trying to carry them from the back of her car. A group of teenagers walks by. None help, and one gesticulates with an overt sexual enactment. The others laugh. Eastwood's character bemoans this display--and rightly so--and is impressed when Tao (the character displayed as the total opposite of a "real man") comes over to help her. It's a moving scene, and rightly so.

Yet, the irony is here: Eastwood's barber friend is fanning the pages of a magazine where women are portrayed as objects--totally useless other than to arouse men's appendages--and yet here, Eastwood's character expects these teenage men to help the women rather than see her as a sexual object through which to make themselves laugh.

So, we're teaching men two things, here: the women in porn magazines are not real women. Those are the kinds of women you're supposed to use, abuse, see as meat for your hunger, and basically dominate. In essence, they're not real and they have no emotions. So the disgust Eastwood's character evidences when the teenage boys make fun of the middle-aged woman is essentially this: That middle-aged woman is a real woman. She has emotions and feelings. You can't treat her as a sexual object or a punchline to a dirty joke.

It's the same old misogynist practice: some women are to be respected, others are to be treated as less-than people and used for pleasure. That's the only reason Eastwood's character can walk into a barbershop where the "real man" is using porn, yet he serves as the model man. A tough man. A real man.

We see the same kind of overt misogyny is the fodder of Tucker Max. In the sickening chants of a Yale Fraternity. Among e-mails of the previous Duke Lacrosse team. Ultimately, young men of every class, race, and place are adept at learning a tragic lesson from the men who are supposed to be their models: some women matter; some women don't. And a real man learns to tell the difference. A real man learns how to abuse and use women.

Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird

The time for tough bravado and pretension are over for us men. It's high time we learn to display a more authentic kind of manhood--the kind that Michael Kimmel, Atticus Finch, Nicholas Kristof, Cornel West, Jackson Katz, Sut Jhally, Michael Kaufman, and so many more reveal. These men--among many others--are using their lives to show that a real man doesn't sit in a  barbershop looking at porn. They don't buy the excuse that pornography empowers women. (Gail Dines and Robert Jensen have powerfully articulated how a system of male dominance and oppression feeds off of pornography, not anything that empowers freedom for women.)

Instead, a real man is one who is able to listen to the stories of others and look full in the face of another human being, granting them autonomy, respect as a citizen of the world, and deserving of dignity. Real men live to enhance the voices of others, offering opportunities for women to be empowered, not denigrated. Real men seek to quit the addiction of glossy magazines and instead see the reality of the world in front of their faces. Real men know that all women deserve dignity. And in empowering others, real men also become empowered in an authentic, honest, and yes--dare I say it--even vulnerable way.

Cornel West is right when he says, "We know that misogyny is shot through the culture. It's in country. It's in rhythm and blues. It's in the White House, and it's on Wall Street." But the men of this generation and the next will be able to choose what kind of men we are going to be. It's high time we put down the glossy magazines portrayed women as objects and pleasure sites. And it's time we call out misogynist actions, jokes, businesses, and ideas as unacceptable--whether they're on the campus of Ivy League schools like Yale, on the fields of sports teams, or in our own hearts and bodies.

Like much social change, it starts by turning away from one ideal, and embracing another. Goodbye, Domination. Hello, Empowerment.

What Love Does

There's an awful lot in our world telling us what can't happen, what isn't possible--feeding us an endless progression of stats, probability, facts, past occurrences. And we tend to bank our lives on these numbers. These narratives. We give a heck of a lot of credence to what's been done, in other words.

And we often make a throne to disbelief. Consider: to discredit something, to critique something, to interrogate a text or a person or a dream or an idea--all these are afforded high regard. Respect.

When James Meredith attended the University of Mississippi as the school's first black student--enduring relentless attacks both verbal and physical--there was no fallback. There was no past occurrence of this event. No stats other than this one: zero percent of the university was black.

When Dave Eggers wrote his heartwrenchingly beautiful A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, there was no example of a literary work that came before like it: a memoir that read like a novel which was searingly honest, ironic, and postmodern.

When Anita Hill demanded the right to defend her own dignity against male oppression and power, there was little evidence of this kind of speaking truth to power. Few statistics that would tell her it was okay to speak so openly, so boldly against that ever-present and deeply forceful institution of power the world over: patriarchy.

The thing about love is this: it doesn't bank on stats. Love doesn't calculate cost-effectiveness or probability of success or even cultural laws and norms. In the words of Lewis Smedes in his powerful book Love Within Limits: "Love shatters disbelief."

As a young man, I felt the constant pressure that a lot of young men feel: to be tough, to hide emotional truth, to pretend. When I became an (older) man, teaching high school and middle school students, I saw the very same tendency in the young men I taught: towards a fake stance of power rather than an acceptance of who they really are. Jackson Katz documents the horrifying cultural norm of violent masculinity, patriarchal power in his documentary Tough Guise.

And for young women, Jean Kilbourne has movingly documented the absurd pressures women must face every second in her Killing Us Softly documentaries.

In a sense, we're trained from a young age to disbelieve: to disbelieve ourselves, to disbelieve the possibilities for different paths, different ways of being and living and working and growing. Instead, fear pressures us into a very narrow life-journey--fear that's abusively proffered by people like Rush Limbaugh. In his recent attacks on women (and, his historical attacks on women, which have been ongoing for decades), he urges people to disbelieve: don't think men can change; don't think the world can change; don;t think there are other narratives to tell, other ways to live.

The beauty of novels by remarkable writers like Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich, Gary D. Schmidt, Neesha Meminger, Harper Lee, A.S. King, and so many other fabulous writers is this: they're telling stories about other possibilities. They're sharing the narratives of the lives we know are possible--the belief that we long to embody in ourselves--and they're doing it in the face of a culture that pressures the status quo relentlessly.

There is little more beautiful in life than watching someone love or be loved. And one way love happens, I think, is when we come across a narrative that echoes something in our soul. It might be something we sensed as kids, but which got buried by pressures to act certain ways as males or females, as members of a certain culture or race or religion. It got buried by people who peddle fear, knowing that the marketplace looks so favorably on that wizard of oz.

But love shatters disbelief. And one place love emerges for us is in the imaginative narratives that haven't historically happened yet--but might. Love leaps off pages of novels where we find characters taking the chances we long to take, rejecting the norms we long to reject, and becoming the people we long to become.

When I first met Atticus Finch a decade ago, his journey leapt like that for me. It showed me a different way to be a man. Not by trying to attain patriarchal power, but by following the cause of justice in the world. Not by violence, but by defending the rights of the marginalized and the silenced. Not by bravado but by inner strength of conviction.

Not by disbelief, but by faith. Because the work of love, if it does anything, shatters disbelief.

Rambo, Atticus, and Raskolnikov

In the March/April issue of the Believer magazine, I wrote a review of the Rambo IV tagline: "Heroes don't die...they just reload." Ever since I first saw the movie poster--four years ago now--that tagline has haunted me as a dangerous message of what media tells men: act tough, be invulnerable, hide who you really are.

Here's a link to the full essay at the Believer's site.

Why We Need Pain to Write

For the September issue of The Writer, I wrote a piece with the above title. It came out of much of what these past eleven months have taught us, and I thought I'd include the link to where the article appears on the magazine's webpage: "Why We Need Pain to Write."

Walking to See Atticus Finch

This past Friday evening, I walked into the city to see an adaptation of To Kill a Mockingbird at the York Theatre Royal on St. Leonard's Place. I first read the book when I was teaching at Farmington High School, and a colleague of mine, Russ Crist, was surprised that I had never before read Harper Lee's classic. So he gave me a copy of the book, and I read it with my lower jaw hanging off my face the entire time.

Among other things, I had the distinct impression that a question had been answered in my heart.

Namely: What does it mean to be a good man?

Atticus Finch was my answer. When I read the book for a second and then, recently, a third time time, I saw more and more to the character of Atticus Finch.

But walking into the center of the city where I live to see a real, live Atticus recite the lines which have been committed to my heart was an expedience unlike any previous play or movie had offered. The streets into the center were calm, and the occasional car whizzed past, but mostly the quiet, cool air encouraged me to think deeply and wonder willingly.

Even in the center of the city--where the Viking Festival was in its climax and an estimated 40,000 tourists were visiting--it still felt calm, quiet, almost like I wanted to ask, This is York, right?

I arrived to the theater twenty minutes before the show was to begin, and just reading the title To Kill a Mockingbird was enough to give me goosebumps. I already began to feel sorry for my friend Phil, who would meet me to view the show. He was rushing into the city on his bike after giving his young daughter a bath.

When Phil arrived, we made our way through the throbbing crowd within the entrance of the theater and found our seats in the gallery.

Now, I thought a gallery was where art was displayed, and also something that could be used in the phrase "peanut gallery" which meant, loosely translated, "a place high up or behind."  The gallery where Phil and I sat was both very high up and very behind all of the other seats. We were in the front row of the gallery, which I thought was wise of me to select, but when I saw the front row, I realized that we would have to lean forward, our elbows planted on the rail in front of us, to be able to see the whole show.

But I would have sat that way regardless.

From the moment the curtain rose to its decent, my eyes were wired to the stage, listening to Scout tell the story of her father, and the story of her own journey towards Experience, by way of a crash course in courage and justice.

I cried.

Yes.

Multiple times.

And when, at the close of the play, Scout remarks to her father, "Boo Radley is actually a pretty nice man," Atticus replies, "Most people are, when you really see them."

That was it.

Man, that was it.

The tears flowed like the River Jordan. (Or like, here in York, the River Ouse.)

The thing about Atticus Finch is that he fought the case that needed fighting. He didn't take it because he thought he could win. He took Tom Robinson's defense because it was the right thing to do.

So much of the ways we live is based on results: what will happen; what our chances of winning are; what the expected yield is; who will see what we do; the praise we might garner; the pats on the back we might earn.

More important than worrying about how we'll be received or what we'll accomplish, Atticus Finch knew that the way WE see others matters more.

Much more.

Walking home through the quiet streets of York, my mind played the line again and again.

And when I walked through the door of our rented home on Lesley Avenue, seeing my wife in our living room, peeking into Tyler's room and praying over him as he slept peacefully in his uptruck pajamas with footies, and climbing into bed myself, the only line written on my heart was, indeed, his.

When you really see them.

Oh, to see that way. To see through eyes that hold out hope and push away judgment. And to fight not because our chances of winning are good, but because the truth behind the battle is worthwhile.

What a way to see. What a way to live.

Writing (And Living) Through

Sometimes, the only thing worse than making a mistake is doing nothing.

In writing, yes, and in life.

As writers, we often find ourselves stalled at important moments. A character just had an epiphany about how she has allowed herself to be controlled by others. Another character has finally admitted the fear and lies he harbors within. The story's climax is approaching, the action climbs, the mystery mounts.

And we stall.

In life, we also tend to stall right before the biggest moments of opportunity. Right before our own stories are about to break open, break free, break the rules, and break barriers.

What connects figures like Nelson Mandela, Mother Teresa, Mahatma Gandhi, Atticus Finch, Lisbeth Sanders, Mark Twain, Sojourner Truth, King Arthur, and John Prendergast? My list--randomly chosen figures whom I admire for their commitment to justice and truth--is peopled by fictional and real-life heros and heroines. Each one of them possesses a single characterteristic that, I think, is essential to be who we truly are as writers and as human beings.

Each one of these people does not stall.

This does not mean that they haven't faced the same kinds of crises we all face. It does not mean that they have not fallen on their knees or felt their souls crumble in heaps as they cried out, What's the point!? Indeed, many of them have, and for the real-life figures, it has often been well-documented (as in the case of Mother Teresa, who reveals in her posthumously published letters and journals, Come Be My Light, that she often felt God was absent from her life, even as she chose to continue doing the work He had called her to do).

There is a very big difference between stalling and resting. Or, perhaps a better way to phrase that asserttion would be to borrow a line from Mr. Han in the new version of The Karate Kid: "Being still and doing nothing are two very different things."

As we write or as we live, we need to be still. We should take the time to listen, think, pray, recollect, prepare and all of those other things that lend energy to our pursuits.

But once we stall, the fight is over. The Chinese have a proverb for it: "He who hesitates is lost."

Living through the confusion, the pain, and the uncertainty does not mean that we deny the fears we feel or the failures we face. Instead, it means that we look these foes in the eyes and speak honestly and authentically, growing those muscles that gather invisibly to push our voices out from our mouths and into the world.

The only way to go through something is, in fact, (and rather redundantly) to go through it.

As writers, we may need to write through scenes time and time again. We often find the paths our characters need to take by watching them walk down one and then realizing, Nope, that ain't it.

The same is true in life.

But making a mistake is a far better choice than doing nothing. We learn from our mistakes; our souls grow and our voices learn to speak more boldly. From doing nothing, we learn only how to continue to do more nothing (granted, in more modern ways perhaps).

The journey towards going through has certainly been a long one for me--and it continues to get longer when I stop and view the trail ahead each time I take a water break. But when I look back at the path I've already walked, I can smile and see that, at the very least, I don't stall my way through life or writing nearly as much as I used to.

I still do sometimes, and indeed, old habits die hard.

But when I'm writing a character now, and I find him getting close to the climax of the novel, I push him forward on his dragging feet--sometimes kicking and screaming the whole way. He argues with me, and he often offers an excellent list of reasons why I should let him stay the heck where he is.

But my characters aren't winning those arguments nearly as much as they used to.

And I sincerely hope that the same is true of my own life.

Rambo Vs. Atticus Finch (Part I in FIGHT THIS! NOT THAT!)

It is a cold morning. Snow lays heavy on tree branches. The sun has not yet risen. A solitary bird (yes, a mockingbird) sings sweetly. Front doors are just starting to open for the morning paper. On a sidewalk, the silhouettes of two men can be spotted, talking in low voices.

Rambo: Atticus, I'm glad you agreed to meet me here this morning. The siuation could not be more dire, and we're in need of every good man who can hold a gun. And let me tell you, word has gotten around that you are a remarkable shot--the way you killed that rabid dog and all.

Atticus: Mr. Rambo, it's nice to make your acquaintance, and I've always said that it's best to meet with someone face to face, no matter how you think you may disagree with them. In meeting, one often finds that the human heart is more similar than not.

Rambo: Huh?

Atticus: What did you want to ask me?

Rambo: Good--I like a man who gets straight to the point. I want you to join my army.

Atticus: Which army might this be, Mr. Rambo?

Rambo: Well, it was originally the United States military, but they refused to fight the war that they needed to fight--the war that basically said Yo, Wussies, fight this war or else! And the military wouldn't let us fight the GOOD FIGHT, you know? All those feminists, equal rights people, and civil rights groups getting in the way of WHAT WE NEED TO DO AS A COUNTRY, and as the human race.

Atticus: Allow me a moment to catch my breath, Mr. Rambo. And, as a personal request, would you mind putting down the AK-47 as we speak?

Rambo: I don't put this gun down for many men, but because I respect you, Atticus, I will.

Atticus: Thanks.

Rambo: But only for three and a half minutes.

Atticus: Then let me ask you this quickly: who do you want to fight?

Rambo: Sweden.

Atticus: Sweden?

Rambo: Yes.

Atticus: The entire country, or just someone named Sweden?

Rambo: The entire country.

Atticus: Can you share your reasoning behind this desired assualt, Mr. Rambo?

Rambo: There are a lot of reasons, Atticus, most of which I can't go into. But I will share these three: 1) I have so many huge guns (both on my body and actual weapons) that I feel this insane craving to use them fast. I haven't gotten to employ them since, like, a long, long time ago; 2) Sweden is always so annoying, you know? Just kind of sitting there pretending like it's all friendly and everything. But I'm thinking, What if it's not? You know? Sweden could be preparing a massive take-over of the United States, which absolutely NO ONE would ever expect. Except for me, that is. Finally, 3) All of my guns have been loaded and then reloaded thousands of times, and the process is becoming very boring without anyone to shoot at.

Atticus: I see. Have you slept recently, Mr. Rambo?

Rambo: I don't need sleep. I just reload my guns whenever I get tired.

Atticus: I see. Have you recently read a good book, or visited with friends

Rambo: The way I see it, books are for people who don't know how to reload their guns. And friends are for people who need help reloading their guns, which I never need help with.

Atticus: Have you tried putting your energy and strength towards something which doesn't require shooting a gun at someone?

Rambo: Why?

Atticus: Have you ever tried it?

Rambo: Guns solve problems. This is my war. I have the guns. I must solve the problem--if only the wussies would get out of the way and let me do it!

(In the distance, the mockingbird sings sorrowfully, flying closer to where Atticus and Rambo speak.)

Rambo: Excuse me, Atticus, let me take care of this measly little creature...

(Rambo picks up his AK-47 and begins firing. Atticus Finch--with a strength no one, and certainly not Rambo, would ever have guessed--grabs the gun from Rambo's thirsty hands and empties all the cartridges from it.)

Rambo: (In shock from the strength of the older man) What did you do that for?! The stupid bird is getting away! Look!

Atticus: (Shakes his head and offers up a silent prayer) It's a sin to kill a mockingbird, Mr. Rambo. And it's a sin to kill for courage, too. Courage is more than a man with a gun in his hands.

Rambo: (Utterly confused) Then...then...what is it?

Atticus: Follow me; let me tell you about it.

(As the first shafts of sun peek through snowy tree branches, Atticus and Rambo walk off, talking deeply. Rambo's gun remains on the ground, empty, already becoming buried in the light dusting of snow that begins to descend. Fade to black.)