Jan Notzon's Blog, page 19
July 9, 2023
Priorities
I am back in south Texas, ostensibly to do research for the novel I'm currently working on. I went to San Angelo and the surrounding area to get a feeling for the topography (my second trip) since the story is set there at the confluence of the three Concho rivers.
There is really only one now, since the others were dammed (but not damned) to make lakes for recreation. I can only imagine what the area was like at the turn of the 19th/20th centuries, which is the epoch in which the story unfolds.
I took a lengthy and enriching (if blazing hot) stroll along the river walk in the city. It is truly beautiful! I would highly recommend a visit, but don't be stupid like I was and go in the insufferable heat of summer, in the middle of the afternoon.
I then drove directly west on Arden Street for a good two hours (Rd. 853) which is where the Lazy 8 Ranch (my creation) would have been. I got a good sense of the area which is still ranchland. It is quite arresting, with a few accidented rises to the northeast that form a broken half-ring around the area. It would have been open range at the beginning of the story since barbed wire was invented around that time. That event is covered in the story.
What I've realized is that when you're doing research all by yourself, it's quite a lonesome experience. I'm now glad to be back in old Laredo (never thought I'd ever say that!) with friends and family.
Have to admit I miss my friends in Charlotte, too.
To all my friends and followers, thank you!
There is really only one now, since the others were dammed (but not damned) to make lakes for recreation. I can only imagine what the area was like at the turn of the 19th/20th centuries, which is the epoch in which the story unfolds.
I took a lengthy and enriching (if blazing hot) stroll along the river walk in the city. It is truly beautiful! I would highly recommend a visit, but don't be stupid like I was and go in the insufferable heat of summer, in the middle of the afternoon.
I then drove directly west on Arden Street for a good two hours (Rd. 853) which is where the Lazy 8 Ranch (my creation) would have been. I got a good sense of the area which is still ranchland. It is quite arresting, with a few accidented rises to the northeast that form a broken half-ring around the area. It would have been open range at the beginning of the story since barbed wire was invented around that time. That event is covered in the story.
What I've realized is that when you're doing research all by yourself, it's quite a lonesome experience. I'm now glad to be back in old Laredo (never thought I'd ever say that!) with friends and family.
Have to admit I miss my friends in Charlotte, too.
To all my friends and followers, thank you!
July 3, 2023
Short Story
Here's a short story I recently wrote. I hope you enjoy it!
A Second Crucible
Of all the stories ever told, there is none that penetrated Jordan Kelly’s heart with the intensity of Arthur Miller’s The Crucible. How he identified with the play’s protagonist, John Proctor. How well he knew John’s self-doubt…his self-condemnation. How he longed to know John’s strength of character in himself.
Never in a thousand lifetimes, however, could he have imagined finding himself in such an eerily similar hollow of hell.
Though John is The Crucible’s central character, Jordan remembered his acting teacher in New York saying that the play is as much about his wife, Elizabeth, as about him. It is about a woman who has lost the capacity to love—both to give and to receive. It blocks her ability to accept the bountiful love John aches to give her.
It is her dogged devotion to Puritan principles of duty and self-denial that sets up an impregnable wall of ideology between her husband and herself. John and Elizabeth’s children were conceived not in an act of love. They were rather the product of Elizabeth’s unyielding submission to the biblical imperative, “go forth and multiply.”
It was her obligation. Pleasure is sin.
The story plays itself out in the time of the Salem Witch Trials and both John and Elizabeth are accused. In the ethos of doctrinal certainty a key element of Puritanism, they are therefore presumed guilty. Their children are seized, and they are placed in separate prisons awaiting trial.
After months of isolation, they are brought together by the Puritan elders. It is their hope that Elizabeth will convince John to confess to witchery. As a man of great respect in Salem, his confession would grant legitimacy to their summary trials and executions.
During her months in prison, however, Elizabeth, isolated and bereft, has had an epiphany. She has come to recognize the folly and destructiveness of her devotion to Puritan dogma. She realizes that it had constructed an impenetrable wall blocking her acceptance of John’s deep and abiding love. For the tender, abundant passion and affection he ached to shower on her, she had returned only cold, unyielding judgment.
Now in their final meeting, she echoes again and again the simple phrase, “I cannot judge you, John.”
And now, some four centuries later, how history repeats itself.
In the cool evening breeze gracing the deck behind his house, Jordan wonders what it is that keeps Stacie from accepting the profound and tender love he has for her.
Perhaps looking for an explanation herself, Stacie refers to her deceased husband. “I never felt so cherished as I did by Robert.”
From the depths of Jordan’s soul comes gushing out, “I cherish you!”
Stacie's eyes lower to the deck’s floor and perhaps even farther to the core of heartache and loss. “I know, Jordan.”
He wracks his brain to parse what morbid fancy or ancient trespass might be blocking her acceptance of his heartfelt love for her.
They connected in so many ways! How they enjoyed each other’s company! How they took such wondrous pleasure in the same things and shared their passion for music, art, literature and nature.
Oh, but it wasn’t the pleasure they took in concerts, exhibitions, flora and fauna that drew him to her. No. It was something so much simpler and yet so profound.
It was her company and conversation shared over a meal or a walk that filled his heart to bursting. Just a heartfelt hug and peck at the end of an evening, the simple act of holding hands during a movie—her reaching out for his when the singing of La Marseilles brought tears to his eyes. It was the tightening of its grip during other poignant moments that sent goose flesh from the roots of his hair to the soles of his feet. It was the sharing of their thoughts once the movie or concert or exhibit was over that he treasured most.
What could it be that stands in the way?
After a moment’s pause, the awesome hammer falls. “I’m a liberal, Jordan. And…you’re not.”
She said it with such finality, Jordan thought. Was this the impregnable wall that separated them? Is it his estrangement from the liberal progressive family, his simple questioning of some of its precepts that makes him…unworthy? …tainted? …unfit for decent society?
Jordan answers with the ingenuousness of a man unashamedly in love. “Stacie, I…I don’t care if you’re as liberal as Karl Marx. I love you! I love who you are, heart and soul. I don’t care what you believe. I love your fundamental kindness, your compassion, your…your passion for art and literature and nature. I love the joy you take in your garden, the boundless energy you reap in helping others. I love your talent and intelligence, the penetrating insight you have into my own scribblings, your sense of humor… And maybe, maybe most of all, I love your wondrous, joyous ability to laugh at yourself. That’s something I hoped you could teach me. God knows I need it.
“I cherish everything about you! I don’t care about anything else.”
He pauses to see if his profession of love has penetrated to any degree the wall that sealed her off from him. A misgiving with the density of a black hole then creeps into the pit of his stomach. It was she who’d brought up ideology. Was ideological purity a litmus test? Did a difference of opinion make him a member of some enemy camp?
“Stacie, I knew you were a dyed-in-the-wool liberal progressive before I even asked for your phone number. I didn’t care then. I don’t care now. I won’t ever care. And it would never even occur to me to try to change you in any way. I…love you heart, body and soul!”
A seed was planted, however, and its terrible germination must be borne. “But the fact that you brought it up makes me wonder, does it matter so much to you?”
He braces himself for the sledgehammer blow he fears is coming. Its homicidal “yes” comes indirectly as a series of ideological precepts. Those tenets are voiced not as opinions or beliefs. No, they are pronounced as doctrinal imperatives carved in stone as deep as the ten commandments. From her tone in delivering them, he knows they can brook no disagreement, nor even questioning.
She finishes with a simple, “Does that answer your question?”
Oh God help me, Jordan thinks to himself, yes it does…it certainly does. And the realization bows his shoulders with all the density of those ancient stone tablets. A defeated sigh of resignation seeps out of him in answer. “Yeah. I guess it does.”
His mind pores over all the progressive friends he’s lost, all the groups he’s been exiled from, simply for expressing an alternative opinion.
Oh, he had learned self-censorship! It had become second nature to absorb all the accusations of greed, heartlessness or hopeless stupidity. With Stacie, he had avoided any even oblique reference to anything political or sociological. He knows all too well the religious fervor with which all those propositions, held as undeniable truths, are maintained by true believers.
All avenues of…not of escape but rather of connection dissolve into the ether of exclusion and rigid ideology.
And now, gutted and filleted by the inescapable conclusion that Stacie’s wall is unbreachable, two bitter ironies grind in the emptiness where Jordan’s guts had once resided: It was Puritan dogma that kept Elizabeth from accepting John’s love. It is Leftist dogma that keeps Stacie from accepting the profound love Jordan has for her.
Oh, but the bitterest, bitterest irony of all is that those who preach tolerance the loudest are in fact themselves the most intolerant.
…How history repeats itself.
…How life imitates art.
A Second Crucible
Of all the stories ever told, there is none that penetrated Jordan Kelly’s heart with the intensity of Arthur Miller’s The Crucible. How he identified with the play’s protagonist, John Proctor. How well he knew John’s self-doubt…his self-condemnation. How he longed to know John’s strength of character in himself.
Never in a thousand lifetimes, however, could he have imagined finding himself in such an eerily similar hollow of hell.
Though John is The Crucible’s central character, Jordan remembered his acting teacher in New York saying that the play is as much about his wife, Elizabeth, as about him. It is about a woman who has lost the capacity to love—both to give and to receive. It blocks her ability to accept the bountiful love John aches to give her.
It is her dogged devotion to Puritan principles of duty and self-denial that sets up an impregnable wall of ideology between her husband and herself. John and Elizabeth’s children were conceived not in an act of love. They were rather the product of Elizabeth’s unyielding submission to the biblical imperative, “go forth and multiply.”
It was her obligation. Pleasure is sin.
The story plays itself out in the time of the Salem Witch Trials and both John and Elizabeth are accused. In the ethos of doctrinal certainty a key element of Puritanism, they are therefore presumed guilty. Their children are seized, and they are placed in separate prisons awaiting trial.
After months of isolation, they are brought together by the Puritan elders. It is their hope that Elizabeth will convince John to confess to witchery. As a man of great respect in Salem, his confession would grant legitimacy to their summary trials and executions.
During her months in prison, however, Elizabeth, isolated and bereft, has had an epiphany. She has come to recognize the folly and destructiveness of her devotion to Puritan dogma. She realizes that it had constructed an impenetrable wall blocking her acceptance of John’s deep and abiding love. For the tender, abundant passion and affection he ached to shower on her, she had returned only cold, unyielding judgment.
Now in their final meeting, she echoes again and again the simple phrase, “I cannot judge you, John.”
And now, some four centuries later, how history repeats itself.
In the cool evening breeze gracing the deck behind his house, Jordan wonders what it is that keeps Stacie from accepting the profound and tender love he has for her.
Perhaps looking for an explanation herself, Stacie refers to her deceased husband. “I never felt so cherished as I did by Robert.”
From the depths of Jordan’s soul comes gushing out, “I cherish you!”
Stacie's eyes lower to the deck’s floor and perhaps even farther to the core of heartache and loss. “I know, Jordan.”
He wracks his brain to parse what morbid fancy or ancient trespass might be blocking her acceptance of his heartfelt love for her.
They connected in so many ways! How they enjoyed each other’s company! How they took such wondrous pleasure in the same things and shared their passion for music, art, literature and nature.
Oh, but it wasn’t the pleasure they took in concerts, exhibitions, flora and fauna that drew him to her. No. It was something so much simpler and yet so profound.
It was her company and conversation shared over a meal or a walk that filled his heart to bursting. Just a heartfelt hug and peck at the end of an evening, the simple act of holding hands during a movie—her reaching out for his when the singing of La Marseilles brought tears to his eyes. It was the tightening of its grip during other poignant moments that sent goose flesh from the roots of his hair to the soles of his feet. It was the sharing of their thoughts once the movie or concert or exhibit was over that he treasured most.
What could it be that stands in the way?
After a moment’s pause, the awesome hammer falls. “I’m a liberal, Jordan. And…you’re not.”
She said it with such finality, Jordan thought. Was this the impregnable wall that separated them? Is it his estrangement from the liberal progressive family, his simple questioning of some of its precepts that makes him…unworthy? …tainted? …unfit for decent society?
Jordan answers with the ingenuousness of a man unashamedly in love. “Stacie, I…I don’t care if you’re as liberal as Karl Marx. I love you! I love who you are, heart and soul. I don’t care what you believe. I love your fundamental kindness, your compassion, your…your passion for art and literature and nature. I love the joy you take in your garden, the boundless energy you reap in helping others. I love your talent and intelligence, the penetrating insight you have into my own scribblings, your sense of humor… And maybe, maybe most of all, I love your wondrous, joyous ability to laugh at yourself. That’s something I hoped you could teach me. God knows I need it.
“I cherish everything about you! I don’t care about anything else.”
He pauses to see if his profession of love has penetrated to any degree the wall that sealed her off from him. A misgiving with the density of a black hole then creeps into the pit of his stomach. It was she who’d brought up ideology. Was ideological purity a litmus test? Did a difference of opinion make him a member of some enemy camp?
“Stacie, I knew you were a dyed-in-the-wool liberal progressive before I even asked for your phone number. I didn’t care then. I don’t care now. I won’t ever care. And it would never even occur to me to try to change you in any way. I…love you heart, body and soul!”
A seed was planted, however, and its terrible germination must be borne. “But the fact that you brought it up makes me wonder, does it matter so much to you?”
He braces himself for the sledgehammer blow he fears is coming. Its homicidal “yes” comes indirectly as a series of ideological precepts. Those tenets are voiced not as opinions or beliefs. No, they are pronounced as doctrinal imperatives carved in stone as deep as the ten commandments. From her tone in delivering them, he knows they can brook no disagreement, nor even questioning.
She finishes with a simple, “Does that answer your question?”
Oh God help me, Jordan thinks to himself, yes it does…it certainly does. And the realization bows his shoulders with all the density of those ancient stone tablets. A defeated sigh of resignation seeps out of him in answer. “Yeah. I guess it does.”
His mind pores over all the progressive friends he’s lost, all the groups he’s been exiled from, simply for expressing an alternative opinion.
Oh, he had learned self-censorship! It had become second nature to absorb all the accusations of greed, heartlessness or hopeless stupidity. With Stacie, he had avoided any even oblique reference to anything political or sociological. He knows all too well the religious fervor with which all those propositions, held as undeniable truths, are maintained by true believers.
All avenues of…not of escape but rather of connection dissolve into the ether of exclusion and rigid ideology.
And now, gutted and filleted by the inescapable conclusion that Stacie’s wall is unbreachable, two bitter ironies grind in the emptiness where Jordan’s guts had once resided: It was Puritan dogma that kept Elizabeth from accepting John’s love. It is Leftist dogma that keeps Stacie from accepting the profound love Jordan has for her.
Oh, but the bitterest, bitterest irony of all is that those who preach tolerance the loudest are in fact themselves the most intolerant.
…How history repeats itself.
…How life imitates art.
June 24, 2023
Gratitude
When I was a young man pursuing an acting career in New York, I once attended a free concert by the New York Philharmonic in Central Park.
When the MC mentioned that this gift of a performance by one of the premier symphonies in the world was courtesy of Texaco, there was a chorus of boos from those there to enjoy the festivity.
I booed along with them.
Today I am struck by the inordinate ingratitude and hypocrisy of the lot of us. We were there, after all, to enjoy a fabulous concert paid for in full by that petroleum company and we had the effrontery to boo it.
Of course, we were booing a large and successful organization precisely because it was large and successful. They'd become that way by providing a product that all of us there freely used and used in great measure because it made our lives more comfortable.
Having those negative opinions about it, the honorable thing to do was to not take advantage of the concert. It is inordinately hypocritical to enjoy something and then boo the people who made that something possible.
Not too many years ago, I attended a conference concerning support for the arts in my hometown of Charlotte, NC. Many businesses that had contributed funds to the theatre community, through which I got work as an actor, were represented there.
Most, perhaps all, the members of the theatre community basically scolded those organizations for not doing enough to support the arts. My perspective--in contrast to my thinking all those years ago in The Big Apple--was a feeling of actual gratitude.
Those businesses didn't have any obligation to spend their profits so that actors and directors like I could have meaningful work. Those contributions were gifts--gifts that gave us work--an opportunity to practice our craft.
Those concerns were in business to make money, after all, and if Wells Fargo and Bank of America and Duke Energy don't make money then there is no theatre, no symphony, no art museums, etc. etc. They have shareholders they're responsible to, employees that have to be paid, no matter if it's been a good year or not. They can't say to there employees and stockholders: "Sorry, it's been an off-year, we can pay your dividends or salaries."
Perhaps a modicum of thankfulness is in order from us who profit from their generosity.
When the MC mentioned that this gift of a performance by one of the premier symphonies in the world was courtesy of Texaco, there was a chorus of boos from those there to enjoy the festivity.
I booed along with them.
Today I am struck by the inordinate ingratitude and hypocrisy of the lot of us. We were there, after all, to enjoy a fabulous concert paid for in full by that petroleum company and we had the effrontery to boo it.
Of course, we were booing a large and successful organization precisely because it was large and successful. They'd become that way by providing a product that all of us there freely used and used in great measure because it made our lives more comfortable.
Having those negative opinions about it, the honorable thing to do was to not take advantage of the concert. It is inordinately hypocritical to enjoy something and then boo the people who made that something possible.
Not too many years ago, I attended a conference concerning support for the arts in my hometown of Charlotte, NC. Many businesses that had contributed funds to the theatre community, through which I got work as an actor, were represented there.
Most, perhaps all, the members of the theatre community basically scolded those organizations for not doing enough to support the arts. My perspective--in contrast to my thinking all those years ago in The Big Apple--was a feeling of actual gratitude.
Those businesses didn't have any obligation to spend their profits so that actors and directors like I could have meaningful work. Those contributions were gifts--gifts that gave us work--an opportunity to practice our craft.
Those concerns were in business to make money, after all, and if Wells Fargo and Bank of America and Duke Energy don't make money then there is no theatre, no symphony, no art museums, etc. etc. They have shareholders they're responsible to, employees that have to be paid, no matter if it's been a good year or not. They can't say to there employees and stockholders: "Sorry, it's been an off-year, we can pay your dividends or salaries."
Perhaps a modicum of thankfulness is in order from us who profit from their generosity.
June 22, 2023
Promo
This June 24-29, I'm running a promo of the kindle version of my newest release, a 2nd edition of "And Ye Shall Be As Gods" for $.99.
Here is a short 5-star review featured on goodreads:
Gwen
543 reviews
Follow
May 31, 2016
"A haunting book with a story that makes the reader examine his or her own life as well as the life of the protagonist. The book is about a man, the trauma his sister is going through and his way of helping her. It is also about the man's love interest and her secret. All things are woven together in a delicious story."
Here is a short 5-star review featured on goodreads:
Gwen
543 reviews
Follow
May 31, 2016
"A haunting book with a story that makes the reader examine his or her own life as well as the life of the protagonist. The book is about a man, the trauma his sister is going through and his way of helping her. It is also about the man's love interest and her secret. All things are woven together in a delicious story."
June 21, 2023
A Conflict of Visions
"Those who dare to undertake the institution of a people must feel themselves capable, as it were, of changing human nature, of transforming each individual...into a part of a much greater whole...of altering the constitution of a man for the purpose of strengthening it."
--Jean Jacques Rousseau
"We cannot change the nature of things nor of men, but must act upon them as best we can."
--Edmund Burke
--Jean Jacques Rousseau
"We cannot change the nature of things nor of men, but must act upon them as best we can."
--Edmund Burke
June 14, 2023
Ideals 2
Given that the ideal is never achievable, what can we do with that persistent sense of it we carry like that itch that scratching never seems to satisfy or the pebble in one's shoe that repeated attempts to shake out never produces the desired result?
It is my theory that we all have that nagging conception of the ideal. In Hamlet, for example, it is his inability to live with the relative nature of this world, the enduring elusiveness of that being "in apprehension how like a god" that results in his tragic end.
Those religious among us believe that the ideal will only be realized in an afterlife. But what about those of us who are non-believers--those who think that this life is all there is?
History is replete with examples of those who believe they can create the perfect society. Hitler believed he could create it by ridding the world of those he believed pollute it. Stalin, a true believer, thought he could do it by ridding the world of self-interest.
...Except his own.
It is my theory that we all have that nagging conception of the ideal. In Hamlet, for example, it is his inability to live with the relative nature of this world, the enduring elusiveness of that being "in apprehension how like a god" that results in his tragic end.
Those religious among us believe that the ideal will only be realized in an afterlife. But what about those of us who are non-believers--those who think that this life is all there is?
History is replete with examples of those who believe they can create the perfect society. Hitler believed he could create it by ridding the world of those he believed pollute it. Stalin, a true believer, thought he could do it by ridding the world of self-interest.
...Except his own.
June 10, 2023
Technology Woes
A tech-savy friend introduced me to Scanner Pro and, as untech-savy as I am, I'm finding it wickedly complicated.
I've been able to scan the play I wrote and send it as an attachment to my email. It will only download it as a pdf file. This is the same problem I had with Office Depot when they scanned all my plays IN PDF.
I find PDF impossible to use and can't figure out a way to convert the document to Word. Is there a way to download it in Word in the first place? I asked Office Depot if they could do it and they said they could not.
When I open the attachment, it doesn't have the right-hand pane where you can click "edit" or "convert". I've never figured out how to copy and paste in PDF, so when an agent or publisher wants a sample, I have to send it in Word. Not being able to convert the document to Word (or any other format, for that matter) I'm really stuck.
All suggestions are welcome.
Thanks,
Jan
I've been able to scan the play I wrote and send it as an attachment to my email. It will only download it as a pdf file. This is the same problem I had with Office Depot when they scanned all my plays IN PDF.
I find PDF impossible to use and can't figure out a way to convert the document to Word. Is there a way to download it in Word in the first place? I asked Office Depot if they could do it and they said they could not.
When I open the attachment, it doesn't have the right-hand pane where you can click "edit" or "convert". I've never figured out how to copy and paste in PDF, so when an agent or publisher wants a sample, I have to send it in Word. Not being able to convert the document to Word (or any other format, for that matter) I'm really stuck.
All suggestions are welcome.
Thanks,
Jan
June 3, 2023
Other People's Stories
I wonder if I became an actor and later a writer because I absolutely love hearing other people's stories.
I have a cousin, Sylvia, who had such a happy childhood that when she recounts things she did while growing up with her I believe seven brothers and sisters I am transfixed.
Even beyond that, I get a feeling of fulfillment as though I actually participate in her stories. I'm really surprised at the intensity of that sense of fulfillment.
I especially get that feeling of satisfaction when another person shares their pain at a sad episode in their life. It always astounds me that it seems most people shy away from sharing another person's pain and heartache.
I recently went through an inordinately painful disappointment. I'm graced with friends who share their time with me. It is a 98-year-old neighbor, however, who has helped me the most. A very religious person, she prayed over me, which was salutary. But it was the sharing of her own emotional trauma and that she also suffers depression at times that helped me the most.
Is this a case of misery loving company? I don't think so. There is nothing that makes me feel more connected and not alone as a person sharing their pain with me.
Is that weird?
I have a cousin, Sylvia, who had such a happy childhood that when she recounts things she did while growing up with her I believe seven brothers and sisters I am transfixed.
Even beyond that, I get a feeling of fulfillment as though I actually participate in her stories. I'm really surprised at the intensity of that sense of fulfillment.
I especially get that feeling of satisfaction when another person shares their pain at a sad episode in their life. It always astounds me that it seems most people shy away from sharing another person's pain and heartache.
I recently went through an inordinately painful disappointment. I'm graced with friends who share their time with me. It is a 98-year-old neighbor, however, who has helped me the most. A very religious person, she prayed over me, which was salutary. But it was the sharing of her own emotional trauma and that she also suffers depression at times that helped me the most.
Is this a case of misery loving company? I don't think so. There is nothing that makes me feel more connected and not alone as a person sharing their pain with me.
Is that weird?
May 20, 2023
Ideals
"Idealism, that gaudy coloring matter of passion, fades when it is brought beneath the trenchant white light of knowledge. Ideals, like mountains, are best at a distance."
--Ellen Glasgow
I think that this aphorism by Ms. Glasgow is one of the pithiest and most important I have come across. I believe it elucidates the Socratic and Aristotelian dictums that "Reality Exists", the check on unfettered idealism.
It was the idealism of Lenin and Stalin that created the Soviet Union, that of Mao that created communist China. The results of those two developments produced the slaughter of estimates of one-hundred million innocent people.
The opposite of unbridled idealism is the proposition that there are no final solutions, only trade-offs, i.e. you get something for giving something else up.
Or, as James Madison wrote in Federalist 41: "...cool and candid people will at once reflect that the purest of human blessings must have a portion of alloy in them; that the choice must always be made, if not of the lesser evil, at least of the GREATER, not the PERFECT, good.
--Ellen Glasgow
I think that this aphorism by Ms. Glasgow is one of the pithiest and most important I have come across. I believe it elucidates the Socratic and Aristotelian dictums that "Reality Exists", the check on unfettered idealism.
It was the idealism of Lenin and Stalin that created the Soviet Union, that of Mao that created communist China. The results of those two developments produced the slaughter of estimates of one-hundred million innocent people.
The opposite of unbridled idealism is the proposition that there are no final solutions, only trade-offs, i.e. you get something for giving something else up.
Or, as James Madison wrote in Federalist 41: "...cool and candid people will at once reflect that the purest of human blessings must have a portion of alloy in them; that the choice must always be made, if not of the lesser evil, at least of the GREATER, not the PERFECT, good.
May 13, 2023
I Will Survive
Wrote for a good 7 and a half hours today. Whether any of it is usable or not will have to wait till I can muster up a modicum of objectivity. But it felt good to do it.
My hope is that even if it isn't, it might lead to something that is.
But I find I do what other writers say to not do. I really amend and rewrite as I go along. Those over seven hours only resulted in a little over three pages.
I find that it parallels what I did as a theatre director. I would work one scene to the bone, trying to get the actors to do it fully and truthfully, getting all the beats and individual moments and truly engaging with each other. I found that this tends to inform the other scenes because the actors now understand the very truth of who they are and what they're fighting for. So they tend to go more smoothly
Another lesson I learned later is something I heard another director say: "If you get 85% of what you want from an actor, you're way ahead of the game."
It all depends on how good the actors are.
My hope is that even if it isn't, it might lead to something that is.
But I find I do what other writers say to not do. I really amend and rewrite as I go along. Those over seven hours only resulted in a little over three pages.
I find that it parallels what I did as a theatre director. I would work one scene to the bone, trying to get the actors to do it fully and truthfully, getting all the beats and individual moments and truly engaging with each other. I found that this tends to inform the other scenes because the actors now understand the very truth of who they are and what they're fighting for. So they tend to go more smoothly
Another lesson I learned later is something I heard another director say: "If you get 85% of what you want from an actor, you're way ahead of the game."
It all depends on how good the actors are.
