Can we handle the truth?

Do you know how writers create? I have been writing all the way back to about the 7th grade, and yet it is still a mystery to me. Truly mastering the art of creative writing is extremely hard work. Writing is a solitary business generally, but many writers belong to critique groups.

I have been in a few such groups over time. My current group is quite extraordinary. It is filled with brilliant, talented people ranging in age from early 30’s to almost 70. Some members of the group have extensive experience with navigating the publishing world. I would say we run the gamut on religious and political outlook, but we have mutual respect for whatever the others’ beliefs might be. And, I might add, we have a lot of fun together. We meet every other Wednesday – since COVID-19 that is by Zoom – and we give each other feedback on whatever manuscripts have been submitted. If something does not make sense, we help each other figure out how to fix it. Sometimes somebody gets stuck and cannot figure out how to end something, for example. We will brainstorm and often inspiration will come.

As far as my own creative writing goes, I am a bit wed to the 1960’s and 1970’s time frame. And I write what I know, so my stories tend to be set in rural south Alabama. I learned as a trial lawyer and as a writer that it is best to show not tell. As a general rule, the most effective storytellers let the characters tell the story through action and dialogue. Having conceived of a character and put him or her into a given setting, what he or she says often surprises me. And let me tell you, what someone would say in the 1970’s is often vastly different from what someone would say today.

I first heard the word anachronism from my mother. I can no longer remember the example from literature that she gave me for an anachronism, but she said that it was something included in a novel or story that was out of time and out of place. For the most part writers have endeavored to avoid anachronisms although it seems popular to include them in satire. I am a bit obsessive about accuracy, so I avoid them like the plague -or maybe I should say like the corona, but it is easy to make a mistake when your writing is set several decades in the past. Choosing the wrong terminology or phraseology can be an anachronism as well. My 9-year-old character in 1970 would not know what “ded” is. Her 17-year-old sister would not say “extra” or “bougie”.

I noticed that around 2019 we started worrying about whether some word choice would be too offensive and that concern has continued to grow. We started trying to think of alternative phraseology for a character’s dialogue even when it meant sacrificing the truth of what a character would have actually said. In other words, we have started sanitizing the language so that the most sensitive reader in 2021 will not find fault with it. We run the risk of filling our work with anachronisms just to placate those who are overly sensitive to every little thing.

What is more, we worry about the dicey politics of some time periods. A fourth grader in 1972 cannot be doing a book report for Alabama History class on George Wallace even though he was the governor and a presidential candidate and arguably the most recognizable figure of that time frame in Alabama. It is too risky. It might turn a potential publisher off, and even if published, it might sour the reader. Bright and funny Sarah Jane would become a pariah.

What we have here in 2021 is a fundamental departure from truth. We are compelled to have a sanitized version of our history. Moreover, it must assuage the most sensitive of potential readers. There is no rule of lowest common denominator. We must aim to appease the minority – not simply the broader majority.

In my first year of law school, in Torts class, we learned about the concept of the eggshell-skull plaintiff. The concept extends to criminal law as well. For example, if I thump you on the back of your head and your skull caves in, it is no defense for me that the same would not have happened to a person with a regular skull. So, what we are dealing with these days is similar. The entirety of our words, actions and beliefs must be palatable to the most freakishly sensitive among us – even if it means we are actually lying and rewriting history to do it.

As a society, we have become soft. To paraphrase Jessep from a Few Good Men, we can’t handle the truth. Instead, we are making it up and rewriting it as we go.


Chasing Paper

Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly.

In 1978-79, CBS aired a series called The Paper Chase that followed James Hart for his first year of law school. My mother and I were glued to this series, and Daddy – well Daddy probably just tolerated it. Not really his cup of tea. Nowadays I am a fanatical devotee of streaming services series that I can binge watch for 30 straight days, and I have more subscriptions than one single woman can watch, so even I sometimes forget the way it was back then.

The modern television viewer probably envisions that we had the broad array of options that viewers have today. Nope. We lived way out in the country and there was no cable television, no satellite, no internet. There was a cantankerous antenna which gave us the option to watch CBS or ABC, and on rare occasions when the weather was just right and we held our mouths just so, we could pick up NBC out of Panama City, Florida.

Thus, The Paper Chase was one of only two options for us at that time slot. Also, not to be overlooked, back then television series premiered in the fall and lasted through the spring, airing on a weekly basis. You caught that puppy once a week for several months before the re-runs started. Heck, we did not even have a way to record the episodes or pause them. If you missed it one week, it was tough luck catching up. You had to get a friend to tell you what happened unless you subscribed to The TV Guide which we did not. Let me tell you that heightened your devotion to your favorite programs.

The Paper Chase altered the course of my life. I was a senior in high school trying to decide what I wanted to do with my life. Up until that time I varied between telling people I was going to be a writer or a lawyer. That lawyer bit was good sport for most of my relatives. Nobody was a lawyer in my family. And heck it was the 1970’s – women were decidedly MIA in the law, but I was blissfully unaware that being a girl was an impediment. (I heard on television the other day that when Sandra Day O’Connor was appointed to the Supreme Court by Ronald Reagan in 1981, women comprised less than five percent of the judiciary.) When I boldly announced to adults that I was going to be a lawyer, the ladies chuckled indulgently, and the men patted my head. One uncle generally followed it with a warning that it was very difficult to get into law school. He always had an example of so-and-so’s son or grandson who had tried repeatedly without success to attain entry into law school. Inspired by The Paper Chase I ignored all warnings and plowed ahead with single-minded determination to be the next Rita Harriman, the intrepid young woman law student on the show.

The next fall I went off to college and a little over two years later, I received my acceptance letter from the University of Alabama School of Law. My family was thrilled for me, of course. I entered law school just three years after high school. Uncle Ernest went from telling me I would not get into law school to telling me how many of his acquaintances had sons or grandsons who flunked out of law school. To tell the truth, it was so hard for this young little slip of a country girl at first, that I worried he might be on the mark.

My entering class was distinguished by a new record – more than fifty percent of the class was comprised of women for the first time ever. Sandra Day O’Connor was in her second year as an associate justice on the U.S. Supreme Court. Nevertheless, back then there were still a lot of people who were not happy about the influx of women in the law. Thank the good Lord I was blessed with a loudmouth and an alto voice. I had learned about the Socratic method from The Paper Chase; falling prey to it was a whole other story. Many a hapless young woman who had been called on spoke too softly or in a nervous shrill voice only to be shouted down by a furious law professor: “The law is NO place for shrinking violets.”

Once it was clear that I was probably going to make it through law school, Uncle Ernest alternated between telling me about how many people failed the bar or were unable to find employment after spending all that time in law school. Yet again I surprised him on both counts although I can tell you, in all candor, I was sweating the job situation. Many law firms did not hire women at all, or they only allowed for a single spot for women.

I will not bore you to tears with detailing the challenges encountered over 35 years of practicing law. Skipping ahead to 2020, COVID-19 cost me my corporate position. (Maybe it was being long in the tooth at nearly 60, but they said it was COVID-19 losses. Who knows?) In any event the past several months of intermittent legal work punctuated by long stretches of freedom propelled me into an identity crisis of sorts in which I have been plagued by self-doubts. Do I plunge back into the law? Do I now take the path not taken in 1979? The little voice in my head reminds me that way more people want to be writers than ever get published. And of those who do get published, many are not able to make the kind of living I have made as a lawyer. And it’s hard. I might fail. And I’m older. Maybe I’m out of touch with the times. Maybe no one would want to read my stuff. The list goes on.

The only difference between 2021 and 1979 is that now I am the one doubting myself. Back then I did not doubt myself. I simply carried on with my plans. If anything, the arrows of doubt that were hurled at me made me more determined to carry through with my goals. I suppose that is the point. The greatest deterrent is not the doubt of others, but of self. At the same time, fortunately I was also blessed with parents who believed in me. They did not doubt me when I said I was going to be a lawyer, or if they did, I never knew it. We must show our children and grandchildren that we believe in them, but even more importantly we must teach them to believe in themselves. There is no better way of teaching your children and grandchildren to believe in themselves than by modeling it yourself, so here it goes – I am all in for expelling my own self-doubt and a total life transformation in my sixth decade.

University of Alabama School of Law, 1985 – with my Aunt, Rubye Carter


Call me naïve

You know when I was thinking of writing a blog, I knew people might hate on it based on the content, the style, the writing, the opinions expressed therein, etc. What I did not foresee, however, was the occasional raunchy look-at-me shock value comment. The first one, after only three posts, was a wake up call.

I’m not going to tell you the name of the commenter – let’s just call him or her “Nellie”. I’m definitely not going to describe the profile picture of Nellie. I’m just going to mention casually that nether parts were involved. Oh, and in our gender neutral world, I’m sure you don’t want me to give some binary, irrelevant categorization of what those parts were. Let’s just say I have three daughters and I saw those parts a lot back when they were in diapers. You know I’m well familiar with those parts — it’s just kind of a shock when they are used as a profile picture. If I was supposed to be shocked, I guess I was — eventually anyway — once I squinted enough at the tick-size icon containing the picture to discern what it was a picture of. The thing is if you’re trying to shock a person of advanced years, you really have to take into account that something requiring acute vision might not do the trick.

I’m not going to repeat what Nellie said in the comment. Let’s just say Nellie was giving advice on how to please a man. Now, this made me think of something Mama used to say. Mama was 35 years old when I was born, so by the time she would have said these things to me, she must have been in her fifties, as I am now. The gist of what she said was that she found it funny when young people made smug little overt sexual comments as though she was uninformed. She’d reference the fact that not only was she young once, but she’d been married for decades. And she’d throw in at some point that “there is nothing new under the sun.” I laughed to myself when I thought of that because in this moment I knew exactly where Mama was coming from. I was married for over three decades and I’ve been a single adult for 8 years. I didn’t comment back to Nellie, but if I had, I think it might have been “well, duh who doesn’t know that?” I might also have asked “so what?”

The one thing I like about growing older is how it gives you perspective. I think most of us long for companionship and intimacy in our lives. We were created that way. In the grand scheme of things we’re pretty much controlled by the same things other mammals are controlled by – the need for food, shelter, comfort, reproduction and so forth. Despite the build up we give it in literature, movies, media and even dirty jokes, sex with all its allure, unaccompanied by real relationship and the fellowship of kindred souls, is just another drive for us to fulfill, and the satisfaction we derive from it is as fleeting as eating a piece of Johnny Ray’s coconut creme pie.

What a sad and foolish person it is who makes his or her profile picture a sex organ. Is there anything more indicative of where this society has fallen? Again I’m reminded of my mother’s history lessons about the Roman Empire. She spent a lot of time explaining about the decline and fall of the Roman Empire and moral decay was a big chunk of the explanation. Hearing about something is one thing; seeing is quite another. Mama loved historical movies. That’s how it came to pass that as a college freshman, I ended up in the movie theatre with Mama to see the movie Caligula.

Now there’s some chance she should have known better since Roman Polanski was the director, but I guess she brushed that aside since the movie was historical in nature. They had to cut portions of that movie to get it down to an R rating. I believe we saw the R-rated version. It’s hard to say. Talk about some shock and awe. There must have been 5000 phallic symbols used in creating the set of that movie. They were hard to miss. At some point there was a wedding ceremony and two huge cakes were brought out- one representing the male and one the female. (That’s back when we all thought in binary mindset.) When they brought the male one out, Mama leaned over and whispered: “Do you know what that is?” Ah, the 1970’s were a kinder, gentler time.

It’s sort of sweet that there was at least an inkling of a chance that an 18 year old girl in 1979 didn’t know what was represented with that cake. There’s basically zero chance of that now. With the internet, a child literally cannot be shielded enough to miss anything related to sex. When you least expect it, a profile pops up represented solely by a photograph of a sex organ. That’s such a wake up call for our generation(s). It only goes down from here unless as a society we collectively reject the culture that exalts a biological drive to god-like status.

We’ve gone too far. Children are sold as sex slaves. Women and girls can’t even pump gas without fear of being sold into sex slavery. Young boys are at risk of being stolen from the streets near their homes. Meanwhile we have leaders who drop all pretense of real feminism and instead promote the notion that the “sex trade” is a worthy profession to be encouraged, shielded and promoted. Our leaders turn a blind eye to the vile unhuman-human beings who spirit young refugees across our borders on the promise of freedom only to enslave them in the most dehumanizing of trades. I’m not sure how we put the genie back in the bottle. If we don’t, it’ll be “Coming to a theatre near you – The Decline and Fall of the American Empire.


Building Character by Looking Backwards

Mama was a high school history teacher. No, that’s not quite right. Mama was a history scholar who taught high school students to love history. I was one of those high school students, but I already loved history by the time she was my classroom teacher. Mama was teaching me to love history by the time I was cutting my teeth. She passed history along through stories, and boy could she ever tell a good story. The more dramatic, the better. My favorite stories involved the Greek and Roman myths, but her stories about American Indians* were a close second. She particularly was fond of stories about Sequoyah, Tenskwatawa and Tecumseh. Her stories always revolved around people and they were limitless. Alexander the Great, Atilla the Hun, Julius Caesar, Rasputin, Queen Elizabeth I, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, Catherine the Great, Ghandi, The Queen of Sheba, Cleopatra, Martin Luther King, Abraham Lincoln – just to name a few.

As I think of her now, with the benefit of the 52 years I spent with her while she was on this earth, I see how two character traits defined her. She was a woman not only of great compassion, but also of great empathy. I often saw her shed tears in the telling of a painful moment in history. Mama saw the good or perhaps the value in every human being. I suppose that could also be phrased a bit more precisely. As a starting point, Mama looked for the good in people. She did not begin by looking for the bad. Mama didn’t look for something to criticize – she looked for something to praise. Perspective makes a big difference. And even when she found the bad, she tried to understand the why of it. What’s more she could put herself in their shoes. She said not to judge someone unless you’ve walked a mile in his or her moccasins.

Because Mama was a history scholar, a geography scholar and a religious scholar she always had the the time line of history and the advent of civilization in mind when she analyzed a situation from the past. That allowed her to put historical figures and events into the context of the times and places in which they lived along with the prevailing ideas, mindsets and motivations of the times. In turn that allowed her to see those people through the fullness of objectivity. She could distinguish between her own beliefs, morals and social mores and those of a past time and another culture. That meant she could greatly admire someone like Andrew Jackson while yet seeing the tragedy, heartbreak and travesty of the Trail of Tears. I never knew my mother to banish someone from the annals of history for being less than perfect. Indeed, she would use human imperfection to teach life lessons.

Decades after my mother retired, her former students still tell me of how she impacted their lives. She gave them a worldview in a tiny rural town in South Alabama. Mama did not merely teach her students the events of history. She used the power of story to instill not just knowledge, but character in her students.

Mama had quite a personal library. I couldn’t bear to part with most of it after she died. A lot of it is packed away in storage. Here and there I made a feeble attempt at donating it to some library, but I never have. After the year 2020, I decided I would not part with it. People are re-writing history. People are cancelling historical figures as though they never lived. People are banning the sale of books. My mother, who read Lady Chatterley’s Lover wrapped in a brown paper cover, would be appalled. A woman who spent her entire life living by the motto that those who forget history are doomed to repeat it would be mortified. No, I won’t part with her books or the lessons she taught. I will hand those things down to my children and grandchildren and hope and pray that they will as well.

*I am using the terminology she would have used in the 1960’s because I am being authentic.


“Experience is the best teacher, but a fool will learn from no other.” Benjamin Franklin

I’m rather a nut for pithy quotes and I’m a lawyer and a mother, so when I ran across a little magnet that said: “Go ahead, take my advice – I’m not using it anyway,” it spoke to me in three ways. First, unless you ever worked as an attorney for a corporation, I’m not sure you’ll appreciate this completely, but business people almost never want to conform to whatever the lawyer is telling them to do or not to do. Second, as a mother of three daughters, a lot of perfectly good advice went into and out of three sets of ears. Finally, if I’m being perfectly candid, I’m better at preaching than practicing myself. I acquired that little magnet and put it on my credenza book shelf, but apparently it did not speak to any of the people for whom it was intended, myself included.

When there were news papers that people held in their hands and read everyday, there were advice columns. Two of the most famous were Ann Landers and Abigail Van Buren (“Dear Abby”). They were identical twin sisters and their advice was spot on. Their columns revealed such good judgment and sound advice over the years that I have to believe they gained it from being raised by the same mother. Alas, it only takes a quick Google search to learn that the once close sisters became estranged from one another and that Ann Landers was divorced after 36 years of marriage, so maybe they didn’t always take their own advice either.

This year is one of those milestone birthday years for me. I’m going to be 60 in August. Six decades of getting advice I didn’t use. Going on four decades of handing out advice that other people didn’t use. When I think of all the good advice I’ve squandered over the years, it makes me a little nauseous. Will Rogers said: “Good judgment comes from experience, and a lot of that comes from bad judgment.” Guilty. Is everyone doomed or just me?

I see and know people who look like they have it all together, so I have to believe that some people are capable of taking advice and learning from others’ experiences. As I edge into this final quarter, it makes me want to pass along the sage advice I squandered over the years and reveal the lessons I learned the hard way just in case someone is listening. Hope springs eternal as they say.