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A Chapter From My Book


Chapter Four

Root Beer and Potato Chips

 

(#Mentoring Boys to Men: Climbing Their Own Walls)

 

It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.

 

— E. E. Cummings

 

I see Steve every couple of weeks. Our time is spent playing a game and talking about his accomplishments. Tonight he’s got on his best shirt and a pair of khakis.

“I dressed up for you,” he says as we shake hands and sit down at the table.

He takes the games seriously: focused, attentive, a big smile showing up when he wins or when he makes a good play. He smiles when I win too, just enjoying the company and having a good time.

“I played with my dad, too,” he says. “We had a good time.”

I nod and talk briefly about having fun playing games when I was a kid. I make light of it, not wanting to linger. A few visits back, he talked about how his dad had abandoned his mom and the kids when he was ten, then died of a drug overdose.

Life went downhill for Steve and he found himself in long-term foster care. He was adopted. The family rejected him, and he was adopted again. That family rejected him too. He ended up in some program for lost and abandoned teens, and then he ended up here, in prison.

I make sure I show up when I say I will, and I’ll play any game with him he wants to play. I buy him a coffee from the prison canteen and sometimes a cookie or a hamburger. I try to be one of the few who stick around for him, who show up and are willing to spend time with him.

I’ve known him well enough now that we can talk about most anything. He’s growing a goatee now, and it’s starting to fill in and look like a real beard. It’s growing in in two colors: patches of brown and then patches of tan, almost white. His hair grows that way too.

I say something nice about the addition to his face, trying to send a compliment his way, to notice his new manliness.

“Interesting that there’s two different colors,” I say, suddenly realizing I might be coming off as rude or obnoxious.

“Yeah, just like my hair,” he says.

“I was a failure-to-thrive baby,” he adds. “I was in the hospital for my first three months, and then my mom got special formula for me. But she sold that for drugs and fed me root beer and potato chips for six months before the caseworker finally caught on. That’s why my hair grows in patches, in two different colors: malnutrition.”

No big deal.

He goes back to the game, studying the cards in his hand. He lays down some cards, making a brilliant play in the game, racking up a bunch of points. He laughs, telling me he’s going to beat me on this hand.

Root beer and potato chips. I’m still back on that, still trying to wrap my head around a mom who would sell her baby’s formula for drug money. It’s no big deal. Just a fact in his life, just part of the craziness he’s gone through, just his story. Another matter-of-fact anecdote to tell over a game of cards.

He’s finished high school, and he’s ready to graduate. He was going to go through the graduation ceremony, the one the high school has here every June, but he got sick and had to go to the hospital for three days. He missed the ceremony.

We’re planning a special ceremony for him—a day just for him to get his high school diploma and a round of applause. He thinks his mom is coming in a couple of weeks—and his brother too. He wants them here for his graduation; he wants them to see him get his diploma.

She’s been back in his life for only the last six months. They talk on the phone, and she’s come to see him a couple of times. He says it’s a good thing, and they are starting to have a real relationship.

“But when she comes to visit, I don’t get any root beer or potato chips,” he says, breaking into a chuckle and giving me a wink. “We’re just moving ahead.

Another comment on my book


Am thoroughly enjoying (through a few tears) your book. Thank you. Perhaps enjoying isn’t the appropriate word, I am appreciating your ability to not only help these young men, but allowing us all to glimpse at the possibility of changing and enhancing any young person’s life through mentoring and listening to their stories. (And giving them the opportunity to write their own stories.

–Shannon Rouse

Denise Porter, on my book


A nice review of my book from Denise Porter, photographer, writer,  and a strong voice in our community.  She is Ruralite Magazine’s Writer of the Year for 2014.

“What can I say about this author?
“He lives here, in our town. He strives every day to make a difference in the lives of each person he knows.
I am honored to know him, to have interviewed him, to read his first book.

“Don’t read it if you want to feel comfortable. You won’t. You’ll squirm and feel horrible about the things that happen everyday in our little town to people you know and see everyday.

“You’ll also feel empowered—by Neal’s honesty and integrity and love of his fellow human beings.

“When I sit down and am honest with myself, THIS is what I am striving for in my life. I want to positively impact people. I am not interested in status, bank account tallies or having the “right” connections, clothing or car.

“I AM interested in living a life that is beyond mine. I want to make people feel valuable and I work to capture that through my writing and photography.

“If these are your life goals, may I suggest you read this book?
And then, would you please go one step further and ACT?”

Struggling With Forgiveness


 

“Forgiving people doesn’t mean you necessarily want to meet them for lunch. It means you try to undo the Velcro hook. Lewis Smedes said it best: ‘To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner is you.’

‘I wish there’d been a shortcut, but the would had to be revealed in order to heal. Lack of forgiveness seemed like a friend, the engine that drove my life, with a hot little motor that was weirdly invigorating. It had helped me survive.”

“…

“Forgiveness is release from me; somehow, finally. I am returned to my better, dopier self, so much lighter when I don’t have to drag the toxic chatter, wrangle, and pinch around with me anymore. Not that I don’t get it out every so often, for old time’s sake. But the trapped cloud is no longer so dark or dense. It was blown into wisps, of smoke, of snow, of ocean spray.”
—Anne Lamott, Small Victories, p 117-118
“Forgiveness means it is finally unimportant for you to hit back.” pp 141-142

The journey with forgiveness, and all of my anger and rage, and general unsettledness, depression, and “not know what to do about it” feelings, is long and tough. Answers aren’t easy, and I practice all of my avoidance, not wanting to really deal with it.
But, I must. I must take it on and get into it. It is always time to deal with my anger, my resentment, and sort it out. Now.

New stuff raises up the old stuff, the stuff long buried, ignored, almost forgotten. It is still there; all of it. Until I deal with it and let it go, it will be around, nagging at me, eating away, and keeping me from moving on and letting go.

I am good at mortaring my brick walls and erecting barriers, keeping my monsters hidden in the basement of my life. But, I am a lousy housekeeper, and now might be a good time for some deep cleaning, and breaking down of the walls I have built over the years.

Desmond and Mpho Tutu’s book on forgiveness is a rich discussion, inviting me to take all of this on, and really deal with it. Their 30 day exercises and discussions on the subject via e-mail are excellent, cleaning out my puss filled wounds and giving me permission to heal.

I have all the tools. I have the time. I have the motivation. And, yes, I do this work. I take it on, and I see the benefits of being truly and fully engaged in the process of forgiveness. I feel lighter, freer, happier. I can move on now, on many levels.

Yet, there are some things I haven’t really dug into, to really work on forgiveness, with some people, some experiences. It is too painful, I say to myself. Yet, there is something else. Perhaps I really enjoy the struggle, the tension, yes, even the hurt. I don’t want to let that go. If I forgive, truly forgive, then I don’t have that anger inside of me, that energy of hatred and distrust.

It is, perhaps, an addiction, a need I have to feel that way. Being pissed off at someone or some experience has become a deep part of myself. If that goes away, if I release that, then what is left? Will I become a lesser person?

That releasing is scary to me. I am not ready, I tell myself. The real answer, however, is that I am afraid of who I might really be once those toxins are flushed away, and I truly heal inside. I hold on to the hate and the hurt, just in case I am not strong enough to live a full, whole life without that flame of rage that still has a place next to my heart.

This is the dilemma I wrestle with, the feelings I must explore, the doubts I must address and really deal with.

Perhaps I need to reframe the question, and look to forgive myself for who I am now, who I have become, and deal with the hurt I have let burn inside of me. Yes, I need to let it go, and be who I really am deep inside. I might even like him, a lot.

—Neal Lemery, 1/3/2015

Gratitude


What must it be like, to get a gift, for the first time in four years?

Four years in prison, after a childhood of hell, of being beaten and abused, and drunk and high, and then doing what someone did to you, to others, and then told by the cops that what you’d been taught was wrong, and you were going to prison.

And, then, for four years, no one in your family comes to see you, or write to you. You are in classes to learn about what you did, and who you are, and how you might want to deal with all of that, and actually be healthy and strong, and become a real man.

Manhood, what a confusing thought.

And, deep inside, you are a kind and sensitive soul, and spend your time being an artist, and creating some beauty in your world. All that is new, to be good to yourself, and to be an artist, to create.

How strange is that, after so many people have told you that you are a beast, and a pervert, and need to be locked up, and punished, for all the bad things you have done.

Yet, someone new in your life gives you a gift of a book, a book that honors art and creativity. And the giver of the book writes you a letter inviting you to explore your creativity, your gifts of beauty, and reminds you that you are a good person, an artist, and a creator of wonderful and beautiful things in this world.

No wonder you are confused. No wonder you find it hard to make sense of this world, and who you are, and what is expected of you.

Commitment, Change and Solstice


“Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back. Concerning all acts of initiative and creation, there is one elementary truth: that ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans; the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred.”

—Goethe

It is easy to do nothing. It is easy to not take a step, not to have that intent to move forward. Inertia is on the side of the procrastinator, if one never plans to achieve anything. Doing nothing means I intend nothingness.

My essence, my soul calls for something more. Moving ahead in life is all about intention. Where do I want to go? What do I want to accomplish? What is on my “to do” list?

I have intention, even if I intend to do nothing, to sit idle. If I am intentional and purposeful, then my intentions form around my purpose, and I am propelled forward, onward. I take that first step, which is always the hardest step. My inertia changes and I move. The laws of physics apply and I stay in motion. I move in the direction I am moving, forward.

Implicit in this motion is a goal, a purpose, a direction. I am going towards something. And, that something should be important, because I am engaging my life in moving towards that something. I am being purposeful, intentional. Yes, directional.

Over time, I find myself down the road, along the way. I am somewhere else, and my perspective, my surroundings have changed. I am changed by this moving forward. In moving, change becomes inevitable, the essence of the motion.

Today is the winter solstice, the day of shortest daylight in the Northern Hemisphere—longest night, shortest day. Tomorrow, the celestial movement will have taken us from here to somewhere further, and daylight time will grow— a new season, a new year.

This year, the Moon joins in, with a new moon today. The heavens are calling for us to pay attention.

I am within all of this, change acting upon me, motion and inertia, pushing me ahead. Dare I embrace this change, and reform myself, finding my intention, and ride this wave onward? That is the call of this day, the morning birdsong of this first winter’s day.

Yes, it is time to move, and to change. I intend it to be so.

—Neal Lemery 12/21/2014

Getting My Book Out to the World


I’m letting it go, letting my book go out in the world, and be born. It is almost time for it to fly.

About ten weeks ago, I decided it was done. I was finished. The book was, dare I say it, complete. It had started out as a blog post, and then more blog posts, an essay, an op ed piece in the local paper. I even set up a folder in my computer and called it “mentoring”.

One day, my wife said that I had so many of these writings, I should make a book out of them.

Me? A book?

Well, yes. I was on my way, I told myself. And, there were very few books I’d found on the subject, and none on what I was saying, and doing with the young men I had been working with, as a judge and as a volunteer at the local youth prison.

And, I do have some things to say; I’m opinionated.

Last spring, we took a trip and I printed off all of my “chapters” at a copy center, and put them in a binder. My task was to do some editing and rewriting, and organize the whole thing into something that people might want to pick up and read. I had the time. Now, I needed to get to work.

That process was slow going, and the Muse would call me to write a new chapter every three or four weeks. And, some chapters fell by the wayside. But, I had something. I had something to say, and what I had written was important. People needed to read it. I needed to get it out there.

Several friends and family members kept up the pressure.

“You need to get that book out, you know,” they would say, asking where I was at on the project.

This fall, I thought it was about ready, as ready as it might ever be. It was time to push it off the cliff and see if it would fly. Mentoring Boys to Men: Climbing Their Own Mountains needed to come to life.

I had been researching self publishing and the whole book industry for a while, and I ended up picking CreateSpace at Amazon for this adventure. They offered all the services I needed: content editing, copy editing, book cover design and copy, marketing copy, interior design, and formatting for e books and print on demand. I’d have my author page and book page on Amazon and readers could easily buy the book. I read all their articles and FAQs, and screwed up my courage to make the contact. A few days later, a nice guy called, and walked me through the process, explaining all the options. What I needed wasn’t cheap, but then, it was time to move ahead and be bold. I had to accept that I couldn’t do all of this by myself; I needed fresh eyes and professional expertise.

My hard work needed to come to fruition. It was time for harvest.

My book deserved the best.

I answered detailed questionnaires, and submitted my manuscript. Soon, an editor was at work on my precious baby, and I was making decisions on book cover designs and polishing up the content of my back cover. “Marketing copy” arrived and I toyed with that, asking some friends to read my draft manuscript and write some reader comments for the back cover.

Wow, my book being seen as a “product”, to be marketed and sold. How to attract readers? This is not the normal worry of the writer, the guy who is off in his corner of the living room, coffee cup in hand, writing in solitude, with only my cat for moral support and commentary for my “morning write”.

But, now I had my own ISBN, the international book identification number, for both an e book and a “trade” paperback. I had my own Library of Congress number, so that book stores and libraries could find it in their catalogs. There was my copyright page, and my own Amazon author number and account. And, when I access my account page, there is that report of books sold this month. Still zeroes, but that will change. There is a place there, to account for all the folks that will buy my book.

The first edit came back, and it was thorough. The changes suggested were good ones, and I felt I had an ally in the writing and book publishing experience. The book was taking shape and becoming better.

And then, the manuscript went off to a second editor, for “copy editing”. I waited nervously, wanting to see how another set of fresh eyes would see my baby.

That editor suggested more changes, more polishing of sentence structure, some clarifications. I found myself checking nuances of editing in the latest edition of the Chicago Manual of Style. It was all good, and made my book even better, more professional. Both editors wrote me nice “editorial letters”, mentioning that they found the book interesting and informative.

The next step was sending the latest, twice edited, manuscript off to the interior design folks. This morning, that product arrived on my computer. My book was now in “book form”, looking like pages in a book, with the font I had selected. There it was, in double columns, with page numbers and chapter headings, my dedication, acknowledgements and author page, just like I had envisioned it.

This was becoming a book.

I hit the “accept” button and back it went to Amazon.
Now, the text and the book cover are going to be combined, and then turned into an actual book, an “author’s copy”, for me to review. My real book will come in the mail, a physical thing I can hold. It will be the last chance for changes, for finding those reclusive typos and other flaws that have escaped my eyes, the eyes of several friends, and two professional editors.

At that point, I say “yes”, and the formatters will wave their magic wands and it will be published. My prospective author and book pages on Amazon will take shape, and I will make decisions on pricing.

People I’ve talked to about my book seem interested and they want to buy it. So, copies will be sold and people will read it. I even talked to a stranger in a restaurant yesterday, who heard me talking about my book with a friend. He seemed interested and wished me well.

Within a month, I think, maybe six weeks, there will be a day when a big Amazon box will arrive on my doorstep, and I will have my book. There will be copies for family, and my friends who have read my manuscript and given me my back cover blurbs, and friends who have been my persistent cheerleaders, urging me to get this out there. And there will be copies for me to sell. I will cry. My wife and I will dance around the house and open some Champagne.

I’ll send out post cards, with the cover design and title of my book, announcing that my baby is out there. Go buy it and read it. Talk about it. Tell your friends. Tell the world. I’ll do my posts on Facebook and Twitter, LinkedIn and Goodreads, like a a good marketer.

Next month, local authors are selling their books at the local Saturday market, and I will sit with them, with my own stack of books to sell, my Sharpie pen to sign them, and my iPad all set up to take credit cards.

And, I will still write. I jumped in to the National Novel Writing Month furor in November, and banged out a first draft of a novel, about a guy in prison, and his life of craziness and penal bureaucracy. I need to dig into that, and rewrite and polish and organize. But, someday, it too will tell me it is ready for the world to see, and I’ll start this process again.

Grieving For My Sister In Law


Last week, my sister in law died. I have found abundant tears, yet fewer words, to sort that news out, to find my way through the wilderness of grief and loss. I am lost in my loss.

Pancreatic cancer is an evil thing. It has moved swiftly into my life, at many times, taking good people, long before I would even begin to contemplate that their time had come to leave us. Pancreatic cancer is on my short list of things to loathe.

When I heard the sad news, weeks, yes months before I expected it, a Christmas letter from a good friend had just arrived. The letter started off with a quote:

“What is the sum total of a man’s life? I knew the answer, and it wasn’t complicated. At the bottom of the ninth, you count up the people you love, both friends and family, and you add their names to the fine places you’ve been and the good things you’ve done, and you have it.”
—-James Lee Burke, Light of the World.

Each day is a gift, and each moment is precious. We need to make the most of our lives, and to do what is right, and to bring joy into the world, for ourselves and for others. And, I am too often rudely reminded that life is short, and should be cherished, in every moment.

My sister in law’s life was rich in family and friends. She sought joy every day, joy in the simple things, the quiet moments. I suspect she treasured the sunrise, and the moments with my brother, doing simple things, ordinary. Yet, in their simplicity and plainness, there was sacred beauty and peace.

She enjoyed rich, strong coffee. She baked miraculous biscotti to go along with it, as well as a variety of homemade pastas and bread.

I have been blessed to have her in my life. We were buddies, friends. We laughed, we shared jokes and stories.

One summer’s day, we conspired against my brother to wash his pickup. We tricked him into driving it onto the lawn, and we scampered like mischevious children, armed with hoses and sponges, even getting into a water fight with my brother. He resisted, but ended up laughing, soaking wet. His pickup was clean.

She retired last summer, and they took a long trip to Italy, her parents’ homeland. I trust they found long warm afternoons to drink wine and sample great food. They bought a new house, and were settling in to a new, relaxing life when she fell ill. And, all too quickly, she left us.

My life is poorer now, with her gone. But, in many ways, she is still here, in my heart. She has enriched my life and brought joy to me. For all of that, I am grateful for the all too brief time we had together.

Again, I am reminded of the shortness of life, and the sweetness of life. All we really have is this moment, and we should enjoy it.

—Neal Lemery 12/9/2014

One Month, and a Novel Comes


10346458_1501761750086364_3550516938767064922_nWhat is it like to write a novel, and accomplish that task in a month?

I’d never thought I’d experience this, to tell a very long story, and get it down, in some fashion and in some sort of order. All within a month.

I’m much more of a non fiction kind of writer—essays, poems, op ed pieces for the local paper. In my legal career, I kept in the non-fiction category, though the cynics among us might disagree about how to label what those lawyers write.

My creative non-fiction book, Mentoring Boys to Men: Climbing Their Own Mountains, is in copy editing at CreateSpace, and is going to be published in several weeks. That work took more than two years, though the times I was writing had a lot of interruptions. No real deadlines and pressure, unlike the idea of writing a complete book in a month. So, why put myself under this kind of pressure?

November is National Novel Writing Month, and there is an organization out there (http://nanowrimo.org ) that gathers people together, at least in cyberspace, to hunker down over their computers, or their papyrus and quill pens, and put together a rough draft in four short weeks.

I joined over 300,000 other writers, including 80,000 students and educators, all with the goal of putting down 50,000 words, creating a book. Well, at least a rough draft.

That’s 1,600 plus words a day, on average, assuming you don’t take a day or two off, and that you write a couple of hours every day, plodding along, headed to 50,000 words.

The idea of writing a book, along with 300,000 other similarly obsessed writers, intrigued me.

I joined a regional group, over 50 people strong, for moral support. Our leader sent out regular e-mails, and even scheduled a weekly collective writing session at a coffee shop, hoping to inspire us and perhaps, guilt us into meeting our goal. I never made it to the coffee shop, seventy miles away, but I felt their collective spirit, their angst, and their drive. We were family, fellow missionaries.

After a day’s writing, you can post your word count to the website, getting feedback on where you are at, as far as the number of words go, and how much closer you are to the 50,000 word goal. The 50,000 words was formidable, and I preferred to concentrate on the daily goal, of 1,600 words.

I started with a character, a setting, and a general idea of the journey that I wanted my character to travel. I had a good list of the supporting cast, and a number of stories to tell, stories that would move my character along in his life, and his journey for self understanding and real change.

I even wrote out a page of sentence fragments and words, which sort of plotted out the journey. It was less than an outline, and more than a short description of the book. Authorities in the know would label it a synopsis, which sounds impressive, like I really knew what I was doing.

When November 1 dawned, I sat down in front of my laptop, and invited the Muse to sit with me, as I started out. Like a weaver, it took a while to set up the framework, and fill up the shuttles, beginning the weaving process, and actually making some whole cloth. At the end of a few hours, there was actually something there, a bit of a story, and more than the bare skeleton of my character. I felt good, even satisfied.

“I’ve started,” I bragged to myself, and to my wife, who was an early cheerleader to my efforts.

But, then there was that next day, and the next, thirty in all. The trail looked long and lonely. So, I only worried about this day, and getting something done every day.

The daily word count wasn’t impossible, and it was large enough that I had to do some serious writing and move the plot along, every day.

When my wife had surgery, I lost a few days. Waiting in hospitals is not conducive to the Muse, even though you have plenty of time to do nothing, nothing but wait. My attention span withered.

Yet, the first full day my patient and I were back home, the Muse awakened, and I churned out 5,000 words in a day. I guess I had been thinking about the character, and the plot, and had some ideas of where it was all going. The Muse is persistent.

It has helped that my character is probably certifiably crazy, and so is the antagonist. And, over thirty years of experience dealing with folks who are mentally ill, emotionally abused, and incarcerated gave me a large cast of characters and a plush library of stories to tell.

The day before Thanksgiving, it was time to write the climactic chapter, and to bring a lot of the things I’d been developing to a rich froth. It was time to let my character find his freedom and achieve his destiny. My scratched out laundry list of the chapter’s frenzy laid there, next to my coffee mug, and I wrote, and then wrote some more.

The final product went a slightly different route, but then, the good chapters do that. My character has a will of his own, and I needed to listen to where he wanted to go in the telling of his story.

My fingers smoked, or so it seemed, and at last, I was drained. The coffee was long gone, and I needed a martini.

The next day was Thanksgiving, and giving thanks for being at 46,000 words and having the end in sight was my offering at the family table for our annual tradition of giving thanks.

I needed a day off, a day of family and eating and being lazy, to recover from all of that angst, and then, on to the last chapter.

My writing is chronological, orderly. But, that last chapter, I wrote it backwards. I had awakened with the final paragraph already drafted by my subconscious.

Fortified by coffee, I typed that last paragraph, starting with the last sentence. Then, the paragraph before it, and then the one before that. After an hour, the last chapter was written. My lawyer mind screamed in agony.

This is not the right way.

But, it was. It worked. It flowed. It made sense. The last chapter wrapped up all the loose ends, well, except for one or two, but then, that’s the fun of writing. You need to not answer all the readers’ questions, though you can figure out that the remaining questions will get resolved, and in a good way.

There was another chapter that needed writing, and that came out onto the computer screen, too. It would fit in nicely just before the climactic chapter.

And, it was done. The first draft. It is a draft, a work in progress. But, the meat and bones are there.

Then, time for some computer work, putting all of my chapters, my daily writes, into a giant file. I’d been keeping track of the word count all month, but when I had everything all in one place, I realized my count was wrong, by about 10,000 words. 10,000 in my favor, though. I’d actually written 60,000 words! Yikes!

With excitement, I went to the NaNoWriMo website, and updated my word count. And, then, I pasted and copied all of my month’s writing into the “word count validator”. Its job is to count all the words, again, and give me an official word count.

Yes, 60,000. Well, 60,650 to be exact. I wanted to be exact. Every word counts, and every word took a bit of my energies this month.

The screen flashed that I’m a winner. I can order the winner’s T shirt, and put the “winner” NaNoWriMo logo on my blog.

I’d also been eying some rather cool writing software, that several writers had recommended. I’d checked it out and it looked very useful. The price was very reasonable, and, if I became a NaNoWriMo winner, I’d get it for fifty percent off.

Now, I have my new software, my new “winner” logo and I think I’ll order that T shirt, too.

But, most importantly, I have a new piece of work to reflect on, revise, and rewrite. It’s a good first draft, and I think it will evolve into a respectable story that needs to be told, out in the world. I’m going to publish it, and get it out there.

My second book. My first novel. All that sounds good. It’s been a good month.

—Neal Lemery 12/2/2014