y o u r w r i t e r s g r o u p...

Random Reality Check

Man, this thing on Sesame Street going all over the world is fascinating. Talk about a vision for excellence. I wish people would leave Phil Vischer alone for his "equivocation" on Veggie Tales.

Anyway, Billy Graham recently spoke with Christianity Today, making a particularly interesting comment:

"Evangelicals have not tried to capture the intellectual initiative as much as we should. We haven't challenged and developed the minds of our generation. Though there are many exceptions, generally we evangelicals have failed to present to the world great thinkers, theologians, artists, scientists, and so forth."

I knew he'd been reading the blog...

But really, evangelicals as artists? What's he talking about? Shouldn't we all be evangelists? I mean, art requires independence, solidarity of vision and all that stuff. And we all know books in our industry are a collaborative effort, definitely even more so than in the larger market. Christian books are not a single artist's vision; they require many. There's a rulebook to follow and everyone has some different rules to apply before release. And while some say we're following the letter of the law rather than the spirit of it, what can really be done? The truth may be that “the spirit of the Law transcends the letter of the Law, and that those who enforce it to the letter don’t understand the need for the care of men.” But applying that is just not practical when it comes to particular books coming down the pipe.

Evangelical artists? It's just not feasible, is it?

I mean, sure, no writers write in a vacuum. Writers are not fighters who do their thing in their corner and then come out when the bell rings and start swinging. The myth is perpetuated by ignorance, and the truth shows a different picture. There's a team of people crafting Christian works behind the scenes in order to fit the standard, the expectations. This is just a fact, and a necessary one.

And sure, there may be real watchdogs on every level who restrict the work in specific ways, many in unhealthy ways. And maybe we've even seen it ourselves and know the frustration of the writers and editors who work on the books and believe in their freedom and ability to influence minds. Maybe we all know authors who have encountered this, and still others who are offended by even the suggestion. But if the books are being censored because of some delicate, albeit well-meaning, folks, what's there to talk about? It's a business and business is business. You can't change it. The battles will be fought whether we talk about it or not, on high-quality and low-quality books alike. The restrictions will either cause writers to work harder or not; they'll either be more effective or less, either more balanced or less. And if some are paying slavish devotion to the letter of the law rather than spirit in order to get their metered truth through the narrow gate, so be it. What's it to us?

I mean we're crazy to think the restrictions on art are going to change. It will not change until the current audience relents. And in the current system, books are rewarded for not achieving balance. Books are awarded for selling out to the lowest common denominator. Some books are given superior status for their lesser messages. What can we possibly do to change it?

And then there's the issue of airing all this dirty stuff which makes it easy to cast us as extremists. Sure, the label is sticky: Calling someone an extremist may say more about the one using the term than about the subject, reducing communication and shutting down debate. In extremism, everything becomes either all black or all white. It’s much harder to accept shades of gray and admit uncertainty, a reason for others' points of view. Those arguing for acceptance of "grittier," "edgier," "truer" fiction have been cast as extremists--and many even do it to themselves.

All of this is true. I can't argue. I just have some thoughts about it all. Like this supposed extremism in calling for balance on the shelves. What's more extreme? Supporting a fuller acceptance of creation and grace, or opposing its influence? Who are the extremists? Those who can’t accept reality, difficult topics, challenging ideas on grown-up's bookshelves? Who's fringe? And no, I don't think "judge not, lest you be judged" is a warning to others. It's to us. Look in the mirror and let's make double sure we're not doubling the evil by judging our judges. But let's try to see things as they really are, however dimly.

No one should be trying to offend anyone. People may choose to be offended by the idea that God is diminished by this systematic erosion of reality that's allowed in our industry. That's their business. And they have a valid point too. Ugliness and evil are deceptive and dangerous. And while the removal of all ugliness and evil may shift, weaken, or reduce truth, it's certainly safer. A sanitized world still has lots of problems to redeem.

Separating from the world, disengaging, may not be a biblical instruction. But the children must be protected and we can't always be around to teach them discernment. And who knows who might see our books and not wind up more godly or mature if we didn't include redemption and solutions? But then again, maybe if they’re old enough to read it, they’re old enough to be taught discernment and the book itself should be allowed to lead in this work without extra interpretations. Or further, maybe we should allow for multiple interpretations. Maybe God intended us to. Maybe that's why faith is so important.

Can we allow stories to be used the way they were intended to be used, as Jesus used them, as messy and interpretive? Open-ended? Confusing? Unresolved? Might Jesus have intentionally led some Pharisees down the wrong path with his stories? What a scandal that would be. Imagine the opportunity to show them their supposed God redeeming even the worst of darkness. Do you think he backed down and softened it for them? Maybe. I don't know. But they were offended, and some may even have been "led to sin" because of it. But these are the scandalous purposes of art: To reveal the world as it is, unqualified. To evoke a change in the viewer. To shine light on darkness and call meaning from the void.

How long can you ignore the world before you start seeing it differently? How many years have people been asking these questions and found no answers? Where will answers come from? These are difficult questions. And yes, artists have high purposes, but they're accountable and they need to realize it. Publishers are not on their side. Editors are required to be double-minded about all this. But we all decide how we will use our time and talents. I don't have answers, but I know--I believe through faith--that asking the questions is right.

Editor's Sonnet #1

Honey, I'm sorry for all the late nights,
Attempting in vain to refocus my sights.
And clacking away by the laptop's dull glow,
Checking out to recapture my mental tableau...

It's just that in book land, few things compare,
With new projects whose prose doesn't pepper my hair.
It's small victories I use to measure good days,
Like when word counts on rewrites have lowered, not raised.
If I miss a deadline and cause Copyedit to frown,
It's up from the grindstone, my nose I must brown.
All the emails, the phone calls, the proposals from Don,
Some days I forget just what planet I'm on.

But I come home, you greet me and kiss me each day,
And I know in that moment there's no advance I could pay,
No royalty offers could hold so much wonder,
As you and your gift of not stealing my thunder,
While I regale you with details of projects unending,
And your glazed look betrays the despair you're not sending.
It's then that I realize, the books don't much matter.
It's you and your trim size that fills up my platter.

Your effortless care of my heart's P&L,
Brings more joy than any 50% gross profit line can tell,
You balance my numbers with such swift delight,
For the treasure you bring, I would forfeit sub-rights.
And if this, my analysis, my projection, is sound,
Baby, your love is the greatest hardback I've found.
In your pages I know that our cycle of spans,
Will grow deeper wherever each rogue contract lands,
From endorsements to end pages, what I most endeavor,
Is just one more chapter in our book of forever.

Happy Hearts Day, Funny Valentine.

Blazing on

Only a few more posts left before the holidays here, so I thought we should get busy on some real controversial stuff like why the faceless mass of CBA readers don't really care about good writing or something like that.

Oh, but that's not very festive. And I'm done being cheeky this year having used up all my credits to get the job at WaterBrook. So maybe I'll just say Christian publishing continues to challenge us toward new heights, push us to greater depth, and stretch us across ever widening balancing acts over shark-infested waters. Deduce from that what you will.

Anyone have a thought to share? I'm kind of running on empty after sales conference and the Christmas parties, decorating, travel plans, and whatever else I'm too tired to write down. All this and my hyperactive toddler has the gall to make me feel lazy. Ingrate. She's getting a big stocking full of coal.

What fresh, interesting things would you like to hear in the New Year? Any thoughts or questions burning inside you you've just been waiting, hoping I'd get to eventually but been too timid to ask? I'll keep the shop open here for the time being with hopes to regroup soon as everyone's back in the swing and playing January catch-up. But until then group, help me brainstorm a bit. We'll definitely have a few more interviews, probably some more questionably helpful commentary from yours truly, but how about something else?

I'm looking forward to all the fun to come, blazing ahead into some new areas.

Short Stories vs. Blogs

Here’s an interesting phenomenon. I haven’t heard it spoken of yet. What used to be called a short story is now being called a “short short story.” Any shorter than 1500 words and it’s now "flash fiction." Those rare things we call short stories seem to be pushing the old novella length, and novellas are a bit longer too. And this is to say nothing of the Harry Potter trend. That new book is how long?

And I guess I just find this a little strange, given the almost unassailable common wisdom that attention spans are shortening, and national literacy is declining. Maybe it’s the “super-size-me” American thing. We just don’t want it unless it hangs out of the parking space an extra few feet.

Anyway, I’ve noticed that even though I write fiction, sometimes I want to share a message. that won't interfere with my characters and their situations. When that impulse strikes, I have a blog. And I think that's a good thing.

But there's a tendency in the blogosphere for people to spout opinions. It seems like the Internet can create arguments out of a simple difference in definition of terms. “What do you mean by that, really?”

I know most blogs aren't the best use of time. Many are intentionally divisive rather than unifying, and have more in common with the hedonistic, pleasure-seeking wish-fulfillment as this super-sized American dream gospel. Everyone gets to have a blog and an opinion. But deep down we know enjoying life requires striving after that deeper pleasure, the kind that doesn’t just come from being recognized, the kind born of difficult research. Great pain creates space for great joy. It’s an emotional journey to enjoyment. And more amazing than causing division and seeking our fortunes is finding new and different people from all over the world, and the similarities we all hold.

A reason I like short stories better than most the blogs out there is that stories are still the best at diffusing our differences of perspective and showing how universal our experiences really are. There’s a thought of Eugene Peterson's that applies here. Jesus often answered direct questions from the Pharisees with a short story—“flash fiction,” if you will. When they’d ask Him for a definition of a particular word, intending to pin him into a semantic corner, He’d answer with, “There once was a man with two sons….” He knew that stories, while maybe still divisive, speak to our similarities and ultimately, subversively, unite us. And the short ones are often just enough to set that ticking time bomb in you before you're on to the next thing.

So, my fellow writers, consider the power you wield today as you’re striving to rightly divide the word of truth on the page. And remember the bigger picture of unifying readers.

Every Moment Time Stands Still

Busy today. A bit crazed, in fact. I'd like to say I'm good on days like these, but I'm not. In truth, they make me retreat into fantasy. Anything to escape...

"Do you have the time," the clock asks, no doubt amused by the irony in his statement, I'm sure. Cheeky clocks are forever messing with me for no apparent reason.

"No, not really. But thank you for pointing that out." I won't be cowed by this. He knows I won't. He's so smart, after all.

"Then why are you still here?"

I wait, consider his reason for asking this of me, watching the little black line pass the 6, the 7, the 8, jerking the seconds away.

"Because I have work to do."

"Do you?"

"What do you mean 'do I?'" getting agitated now. "You know I do."

And then, he's silent. The merciful quiet startles me for a moment, and I look up. The tick-tick-taunting of the second hand has stopped.

"This is it. You'll never have this moment again. How you'll spend it is up to you. No one has to do anything they don't have time for. Each moment is a gift."

Wow. Well, I guess I know who's been reading Ecclesiastes while I'm gone. But he's right. Whether or not he sounds like a PBS motivational speaker. I know he's right.

I could swear his placid, circular face is glaring. "Stop trying to be so smart all the time. Stop convincing yourself of what you have to do. Just stop. All of it."

I stare at him, this ordinary desktop clock that's able to convict me with aphorisms and stop time. The moment endless. What will I do when time stops forever, as it certainly will eventually? What will be my excuse then?

"Okay," I say. "I don't have to work." I look down at my fingers. Empty, calloused hands. "But then what do I do?"

The ticking resumes.

"Just enjoy."

I blink, adjusting to this new reality. Time and time to enjoy it. How novel. I suppose it could be an answer. Of sorts.

I stand and turn from the desk, the clock, the keyboard, the screen, the scales falling off.

Maybe it's a new world. It could be.

HyperFiction, part 2

I'm not going to belabor the point about the dangers of the Internet. It's a moot point. No sense resuscitating the argument about the supposed digital destruction of our world.... Whether or not you believe that, the entire point is that the digital age is here to stay and it's changing everything. We all know this, but we don't know what it means. One of the meanings is undoubtedly the loss of more souls into these deeper and deeper subworlds directly opposed to the cause of Christianity. If we want to remain "relevant" and up with the times, we need to take these matters seriously. There is no longer any excuse for some of the blatant ignorance showcased as "Evangelical thinking"—a term derided as an oxymoron by the majority of the free world. Any dissent there?

My purposes in highlighting hypertext are to open our minds to another tool and example of some cutting edge opportunities for Christians to show some mental prowess and spiritual insight. Take a look at this excellent source created in part by Michael Joyce, the most-recognized hypertext author to date. And no, you don't have to be able to read binary code or understand the nuances of chaos theory to reap the rewards of ponderficating about these intermesting word usements.

But let's move on. We've got places to go. How exactly does hyperfiction relate to our call of being salt and light with our writing? I can think of many ways, but maybe most importantly, hyperfiction demonstrates the principles at work within the universe, the great order in the seeming disorder we see all around us. Here's an interesting article that holds up C.S. Lewis' Screwtape Letters as an example of process theology, commenting on the advantage such a perspective lends to Christian writers. A deeper search into the concept of process philosophy reveals an interesting tenet: "God is not exactly of the world of physical reality, but does indeed participate in it processually--everywhere touching, affecting, and informing its operations." Lewis unknowingly created an example of process theology in his depiction of God in that early work. Our appreciation of his work grows once we appreciate the spiritual nuances and logic behind it. In the same way, hyperfiction is an opportunity to appreciate more fully how God works. Do you follow?

In essence, everything in our known universe is ultimately an indication of God. As writers, we're all given pieces to illuminate, or "portals" to invite others into. The cutting edge of science today is reflective of the ancient beliefs within Judeo-Christian traditions. It's not a myth. It's demonstrable fact.

And that excites me. It's the connections between seemingly unrelated things that entices me to dedicate more to becoming an "approved workman" who need not be ashamed. An energetic thinker, rightly dividing the word of truth. An expert marksman, trusting the armor of God to keep my feet balanced and my sights true. A craftsman who need not fear treading into dark places to expose and comprehend the blackness not foreign to men.

Those who dare to suggest God would not have us associate with the world He called us to serve, do so in ignorance. They need waking up too. And my contention is that we will never reach them unless we get in the game.

But the greater understanding we have for the interconnectedness of all things, the greater reality we can awake in our readers who come up to our stories gasping for the clean air of truth, hoping against hope for anything that might disprove the despair gnawing at their souls.

It's up to you, people. I submit to you that there's no greater assignment than this: than to write down the interconnected truth of life for your readers.

This is Hyper-fiction

Have you heard the term hypertext? Basically, when you do this, you're creating hypertext. Hypertext fiction is online fiction with hypertext linked in and it's gaining ground in university creative writing programs around the country as a unique, postmodern form—some are saying THE last great frontier in what can reasonably be called the "novel."

It's definitely got the typical "cool" factor of so much of this PoMo business, so be forewarned, but I figured since most of us are just surfing around, wondering if our tax returns are ever going to arrive from the IRS, we might as well use this "hypertext" stuff for another metaphor.

Because, really, the world is full of hypertext, just sitting around, waiting for someone to fall in. I'm starting to think this is a more significant idea than we realize. So once you've gone through all your emails, and the phone calls have all been made, come on back and travel into this thought with me. A little mental hypertext excursion...

The Internet urge is something of a compulsion, if not a full-blown addiction, for a large segment of the world's population now. The pretty, guilt-free baubles and bijous of information are the perfect reprieve from whatever ails you. The gentle sucking sound as you're whisked around from pad to pad in the great, wide ocean of cascading code. It's lover, friend, confidant, panacea, solace, fortune-finder, escapist adventure, curio cabinet of mysterious subworlds. Alice's rabbit hole. Neo's awakening. 

But that's not all. Picture Eve's apple. The promise of knowledge.

It's not such a stretch, is it? "Try it," the glowing serpent hisses. "You will not surely die." And your LCD screen flickers while the beautiful green snake recoils.

This Internet thing isn't just a nice convenience anymore, is it? The world has no idea what it's dealing with here; undoubtedly, the greatest force ever unleashed. And yet we don't want to face the fact. This, the ultimate social experiment. Randomness and chaos eternally linked to some illusory order. All of us, mental travelers, doomed to the solitary construct, the annihilation of time. Is anyone not suceptible to this insidious monster? And what will be the result? Mass insanity?

As the worm holes expand deeper, those of you who still grasp reality might realize you have an inconceivable task before you. It's a cosmic game of infinite proportion. Get to them before it does. Stop them tumbling into the multiplying traps, the compounding categories, the networked purgatory, springing like zombies from every corner of the web.

But how? The force is too great, the worm holes too prevalent. We're just a handful of dreamy, cloistered artists, too concerned with the limitations of our backyard to have any real impact.

I would suggest that Lewis and Tolkien knew the answer. The only way to prevent further losses to the matrix is to create your own entry point, a window revealing the true reality.  Each of you have been assigned a portal of entry at the beginning, a singular, distinctive birthright to share with your decaying race. They can't see it unless you uncover it. Their eyes are dulled, weak, vulnerable the myriad other portals already open. Many of them have no preference which will ultimately claim them like zombies, sliding into the void. No reference points, no familiar constellations to navigate by. You have to give them that entry point to the unchanging, unmoving rock of absolute power and make it so attractive, so unaviodable, so imminently apparent that no one passing by could help but stop and stare into it.

This is why you have to be the stronger one, the steel-skinned lunatic screaming into the darkness. You have to study and strive to burst the misconceptions that lock their deadened attention, peel back the falacies for the brilliant energy to envelope them. This is how the message passes, person to person, overtaking the monster—the world wide web. How many are already trapped, lost, imperious to the blinking glimmers of truth around them? How many more will float off into the void without realizing this was the revolution, the calling that could have saved them?

You're only here for a time, to call a few to come face this reality. Are you willing?

Depending how many of you got this far, I think I'll continue on this spooky thought and let it cook some more. Let me hear from you on this if you agree.

I Survived Mount Hermon Christian Writers Conference 2005

Quick post tonight as I'm already snoring while I type here.

I go to many writers conferences each year in search of new talent to acquire and each conference has a unique flavor. Mt. Hermon is my favorite, and it's a good thing because it's the one that requires the most from me. I'm not complaining, believe me. I love it. It's exhilarating, but exhausting. The community of writers and editors is like a big family, and I still learn even as I struggle to keep my eyes open and not yawn during the final pitches.

But I do feel I earned the honorarium. There's just nothing that can give me back the time I've invested to do this. While I might end up seeing some proposals that could work for my house, it will take me a few days to get over all the sleep deprivation. I estimated I heard over 60 pitches in just over 4 days, sat on 4 panels, taught 4 classes, and hosted 9 round table meals. Last night, I was struggling to stand on my weak legs.

And can you believe there's still time to blog in the midst of all that? :)

I don't want to be Don Miller

It's strange blogging. It's like publishing your journal or taking your shirt off in front of the class. It feels sort of wrong like I'm doing something I shouldn't, which is probably why I like it. But for a while now I've been hovering around a few hundred visitors a day and while I'm not unhappy with that, I do sometimes wonder if I was to post some pictures of naked people, or Mel Gibson carrying a cross, or the secrets of the Da Vinci Code or something if I wouldn't get more "traffic" as they call it.

One thing I've noticed is that a lot of people come here looking for Donald Miller, which is pretty funny. Though he's likely to get a kick out of that because he says he's never been the one people go looking for, he's actually light years cooler than I am. And it is funny in one sense because I'm supposed to be an all-mighty book editor, holding the keys to a writers' survival. But I actually like not being Don Miller. I've had a little taste of the sort of maddening popularity he's arriving at now. When I was young it was piano recitals that brought unwanted attention. Now it's at writers conferences and I don't enjoy that part. It makes me act weird and I get kind of shaky and afterwards I have to go be alone for a while before I'm normal again.

But this is what I'm building up to: the trick: how to be yourself. I just wrote a bunch of articles for Breakaway, Focus' magazine for teen guys. The topic was being who God made you, how to find it and how to hold on to it. It's what we all want and yet for some people it's so ellusive. It's what most editors are looking for when they sit down to be pitched to and it's what we look for in our favorite actors and actresses who are basically the same people no matter what role they're in. We love people who are authentically themselves, and no one seems to understand this as well as young-minded people. Holden Caufield became a poster boy for that sacred principle of youthful idealism, resisting all the phonies and those who subscribed to an artificial culture of any kind.

The thing with cultures is no matter what kind you're talking about, they require artifice. Publishing has its culture. Writers are pressured to adopt identities and it's accepted as a normal part of life, of being a healthy member of society, of being an adult. But what's the difference between that and say, a cult? Very little, actually. My point is, maybe we should take a lesson from Holden. From Don. From our inner teens. Don't be phonies to try to win points. Don't fit your culture, or try to impress people, no matter what the reason: a job, a better life, a book contract.

I'm being somewhat nonspecific here and I know it, but for me, not wanting to be like Don Miller can be difficult. I consider him very close to my ideal identity. But being authentically yourself as a writer means you have get over your fears to actually be yourself. Here's what Miller says: "I just want to write stories that have a lot of crazy things happening to crazy people. If it happens to have some theological truth in it, cha-ching!" Some might say his tack is deceptively simple, that he's actually striving very hard to strike a particular pose, fit just the right niche, whatever. But I don't think so. No one's that good. Sooner or later, the act is going to slip (Jim Bakker). There's no substitute for real.

This is why I can't be Don. I'm this person. And that's the message I'd like to leave you with tonight. YOU are what editors are looking for because YOU are what readers are looking for. Believe it or not. Maybe you think that's too simple and idealistic. Someone has said that fiction readers are all about the mental age of 18-22. I believe that. And I believe that gives us a very specific value. It's easy to get a little smart and say it's childish to place such a high premium on being yourself, but remember Jesus with the children. Cynicism and artifice have no business with innocence and genuineness. Childishness is a spiritual value. And actually one of the bigger ones.

I've written elsewhere about geeks and you can just apply it here as well. "Normal" people are geeks. No one's really cool. The way the new CBA is shaping up with folks like Miller, Lauren Winner, and Brian McLaren, there's a lot of room for some genuinely geeked-out cats, maybe one like you. Those who pose and hide behind fears will go the way of the dodo. And those who find their truest selves and show it without apology will continue to make us smile and scury to publish their genius.

Struggle, Loathing, and Masochistic Tendencies

A few thoughts I left just kind of hanging in space last night, I want to try to unpack here tonight. If I can piggyback on something relevantgirl said in her comment--that American Christians are trite because we flee suffering--I'd like to offer a few (loosely connected) thoughts.

I think after six months of this blogging thing, it's high time I told you what it's all about. You want to know the real reason I'm here, writing every night? It's probably not what you're thinking and I'm sure you'll be disappointed in me, but I don't care. The real truth is, I'm trying to escape. That's it. I mean, that's not all, everything, the end. I mean, it's just easier to write to escape than to attempt the other forms. At least I can be constructive while I'm escaping.

And something tells me (the voices, THE VOICES!), that you probably know that and I'm just making a big deal about nothing here. Regardless. The fun thing is, I can't hear you, so I'm impervious to your protests. And besides, you don't know yet what I'm trying to escape from. Wait--I'm going to tell you.

It would be easy to say it's the job, the pressure, the intense responsibility, overflowing in-box, whatever. That's certainly a factor. But no, that's only, like, 12.36% of the reason. The real thing I'm escaping, the big percentage anyway, is the insatiable need I have to escape my fear of being a phony. If you've read Catcher, you know what I mean. It's a disappointment, because it means I'm motivated by a negative rather than a positive, but I think after I tell you the rest, you'll understand a bit better.

Relevantgirl's comment struck me because I think it applies to me better than anything I've ever written about myself. And that's saing something, because I write about myself a lot. I'm very self-absorbed, though I'm getting better with age. The worry is, that as I age, I'm getting worse at accepting the uncertainty and instability of life. And that is what I'm trying to escape: aging. Trading fearlessness for fear. As I get older, I'm not building resilience, I'm losing it.

Escapism is one of those things that's publicly frowned upon, but privately practiced by all. Addictive personalities like mine are screwed at birth, but it's no surprise that even the generally stable are prone to a few treasured fettishes. Escapism is pretty much the search for comfort, the same comfort that makes people into weenies, makes them rely on triteness and cliche, makes them into phonies to those who know real life through suffering. American Christians, by and large, are phonies. They aren't suffering, as relevantgirl said, if anything, they're padding themselves against all feeling. They're getting older.

And maybe now I'm excited because I can finally say something about it without sounding like a typical cranky teenager. But—O, the humanity!—the very thing that releases me to speak, wraps me in its insidious grip! And if that isn't the very essence of Holden's dilemma, I just don't know what is.

Maybe, what I'm trying to do is to catch a few of you before you go over the edge. We can escape together the apathy and the horrible, crushing whispers of Christian consumerism. Through honesty, through heartache, through struggle, loathing, and masochistic tendencies that could get us branded as modern day acetics or monastics, committed in community to the development of our spirits together. Aesthetes who are cognizant and responsible for the darkness we bring in with the light and not shunning it to the invisible corners of existence, but welcoming it as a natural result of the full truth.

Okay, maybe I'm not talking about true masochism. I don't want to have to put any of you away in padded cells. And loathing isn't really all that healthy either. But there's so much to be said for the effort required in struggle.

I leave you with a quote from an unknown source. I like to think the source had realized the full implications of the wisdom he'd found and left his due recognition for someone else to claim. But it's probably just that I forgot who said it. "Love is suffering."

The greatest of the commandments is, in essence, to suffer.

Ed: (And then there's this one, I also like, "If suffering brought wisdom, the dentist's office would be full of luminous ideas.")