Why didn't the EYES, better known as Empathic Yoga Ecologist Seers on Erth One, predict so many people would check my website as soon as I started querying agents to represent Erth Won? (That's the book title, not the planet name.) I sent only a few letters, not thinking even one agent would check my website. At least not so soon. And never 20 times as many letters as I sent. It can't be the webcrawler bots checking for updates.

Under such scrutiny, I decided to do a major overhaul. Many agents say they want well-developed new worlds or old ones re-imagined. Though Erth One fits both extremes, I hadn't posted many specifics online. So I did.

For my friends and relatives who already read my home page, please do so again. Same goes for teenage and adult reviewers. Let me know if you like the hisstory I posted for Erth One. Ditto if you have any questions about Erth SCOUTs, Super Conductors of Universal Terraforming. Most important, show your interest and support by clicking the like button and sharing on Facebook. I need a large audience of willing readers, the larger the better.

Why, you might ask? To convince an agent I have enough readers to make it worth marketing my book, These days most publishers won't read any manuscript sent by an unagented writer. And what good is free agency without any doors open to choose between?

Erth Won is a clean read, even if the characters get dirty fighting addictive towbackhoes and other evils poisoning the Heartland. In the end, someone will have make sure evil gets its just desserts, beating some murderous bullies in the process.So share with anyone who has children over the age of ten who might like going along on the reading adventure of a lifetime, saving Erth One's Heartland from destruction.

If I posted only the last spelling at least one person would think I can’t spell. Instead, I’m having a rainy spell. It’s bad enough getting rained on where people will notice you looking like a drowned rat. It’s worse when you get soaked financially. Within 3 months we’ve had 2 broken phones (1 of the expensive android-gynous persuasion), 2 mechanically challenged cars, 2 wrecked trucks,1 stolen trailer, 1 stolen ring, 1 broken fridge, 2 broken washers, and a pool with multiple broken parts. Now what did I forget?  I try not to think about the thousands of dollars in water damage in a bathroom due to a certain teenager’s looooooooooong showers.

The fridge is back in business because I knew what was wrong, found a cheap part, and the repair was manageable, if not easy. Nothing else has been even close to easy. When the fancy washing machine decided to go out of balance during each load, I couldn’t decide which part it needed. Its unbalanced behavior—constant hopping around the laundry room floor—nearly unbalanced me too. So I did some hopping onto Craigslist and sold it—with full disclosure, by the way. I told the buyer the most expensive part on the long list of possibilities.

I researched; I shopped, and finally decided no more fancy HE washers. In fact, no more NEW washers, period. It won’t be nearly as painful replacing my used $400 washer/dryer pair as a new $1800 washer/dryer pair—which I sold for $350. Ow. Never mind getting an agent for my fiction writing. I need one to manage all these disasters. There must be some profit in failure, right? 

Did you already guess my replacement washer broke too? You should’ve seen that coming, even if I didn’t. I liked the Atlantis, an old fashioned (never mind how much water it uses) top loader.  Except it sometimes didn’t drain during the spin cycle, and yesterday it just stopped right after filling and never actually washed the clothes even though the timer advanced to the end of cycle. 

Second Chance Appliances left this message on their phone. “We’re out of business until further notice. Don’t leave a message because I won’t call you back.” I left one anyway, to make sure the owner knew I wasn’t happy. According to another dealer, he won’t hear it in jail. Can’t say I’m sorry. Except once again, after I took the washer apart, I saw nothing that looked broken or smelled burnt. If it’s either the timer or motor that broke, those suckers are expensive. 

Monday I’ll make some calls, search the internet some more, and probably decide wrong again. Would hiring a repairman to do the repairs kill me? No, but considering all the other repairs I can’t do myself and have to hire a repairman, it would kill my budget. That’s why a rainy day almost never means I have much undisturbed writing time.

I would give thunderous applause for even one day without something breaking, getting wrecked or stolen. Oh wait, I had most of one last week, but I used it to wash and fold all the laundry backed up during my last trip to Seattle. Even the bedding had to go through thanks to our cat Furball who had a fight and bled on it. Poor Atlantis (my washer, remember?) re-sank under the last boatload of bedding and might never rise again.

I’m glad I know how to swim. Stroke, breathe, stroke. Uh-oh. Is that a hurricane coming? Okay, have a stroke. Nah, I think I’ll open the doors and let the floods come in. Sorry for the sarcasm. Tonight I prefer paddling over drowning in tears.  Tomorrow, I’ll try to be nice again.

I went and I learned and its do now or die.

There you have it, not exactly panic on the doorstep of success—more like I need to take the next step already. I’m tired of endless rounds of critiques and editing.  Taking even more poetic license—this is it—time to submit. My blogs have been sparse because I’ve been busy writing, snatching every second I can between family time, the usual business and unusual business, dealing with disasters.

I’ve revised my query about a hundred times.  My synopsis is so sync-copied I can’t see straight.  I worked two classes of 7th graders’ fingers to the bone to polish my book. Okay, that’s an exaggeration because I brought treats, gave prizes for the most helpful suggestions, and we had fun. But school ended and I finished entering the students’ suggestions within a month. Then I made another round of adult critiques, and another few rounds of my own. Since I’m my own worst critic, I put a time limit on that or I’d never submit anything. The time limit was SCBWI’s Orlando workshop.

I went to the middle-grade track and enjoyed the success stories and especially the humor, but I went for the lessons. I got those in enough detail to push me forward, through that last leg of synopsis and query editing. So between family business and church stuff, getting choir ready for another performance, I’m going to set out Query Shark bait. That’s how open to criticism I am. Chew me up and spit me out, just leave a few pieces, please.

I’m also taking a few days to regain my calm and feed my spirit with a relative visit.  Even a working vacation does wonders when it's to see loved ones. Back home I’ll start researching my first round of 10 agents to query.

I might have to delay another week while I deal with backed up laundry and finances—I can’t stand dirty laundry piled up or receipts not entered in Quicken either. But I hope to have the dirty business under control soon, along with the long awaited launching of one of my children from the nest.

Fly! I won’t cry—much. Maybe I’ll even take over the space for an office.

Afterwards, all other business must take a number and stand in line, because I'll be researching agents and reading their submission guidelines. Last but not least, I’ll send, send, send, because I hear there’s no end to rejections.

    Blog June7, 2011

Before that, the question for me was to do or not to do. To make things clear, there’s really no question of me not doing. The only way I could fail as a writer is to quit. I’m never done writing even when I just finished editing the last chapter of my book. So I must do—but not in the manner of much ado about nothing.

I have committed substantial effort to my book. This last revision was inspired by a class of 7th graders I worked with once a week this year. Now I need a few adults to volunteer as reviewers. These reviewers must not quit, at least not before the 4th chapter. More important, there’s a one week deadline to review three chapters.

I don’t expect a full line edit like a professional editor might provide, but I do need to know if the story is easy to read, whether it flows and makes sense to an adult—you know, those “old” people who buy the books for their young teenagers.

The 7th graders gave me suggestions and inspiration that generated a ton of changes. Think I’m kidding? Try lifting the stack of review papers I went through first as a group and then individually to make sure I addressed every question and concern.

The most important lessons I learned from them are less talk and more action. The average twelve-year-old these days doesn’t understand puns without explanation. Same with words like entity and rift. There’s a huge mental leap that happens somewhere around age 13. I hope that’s my lucky number, even if I don’t believe in luck except as a reward for hard work.

Now I have until the 24th of June to have adults read my book, or at least the first three chapters, and offer up opinions, good or bad. That date is when I’ll attend the SCBWI (Society of Children’s Bookwriters and Illustrators) midyear workshop in Orlando to try and sell it. I could use a few more volunteer reviewers, but only if you’re a fast reader and only if you’re not afraid to tell me the worst. I wouldn’t ask for criticism if I couldn’t take it.

I have one volunteer who left on vacation and might not be able to finish the first three chapters in time. Make no mistake, timing is critical because I need a week to make any changes necessitated by the reviews. For locals, I can print and deliver the manuscript if you prefer. For everyone else, the reviews must be online because there’s not enough time for snail mail.

I will return the favor of course. If you’re not a writer, I can help hone presentations or lessons for work, school, or church. So now the question is to review or not to review. I leave it up to you.

Make it or break it. Succeed or fail. Either way, there’s something to learn, even if failure and bad breaks teach unpleasant lessons. Unless the bad break comes solely from someone else’s decision or a natural disaster, most times changing a decision will change the outcome—next time. I would like to turn my bad breaks into good ones. Who wouldn’t?

Of course, sometimes bad breaks pile up so fast it’s hard to find the good breaks—not so much “can’t see the forest for the trees” as “can’t see the end of the tunnel because it’s filled with wrecked cars”. Today I can’t see to the end of my kitchen because I have two fridges in it and I can’t see my laundry room floor because it’s piled with dirty laundry. No complaints about the fridge, which broke after many years of good service. The second fridge, a temporary I bought while I fixed the first, is about to be donated. My old fridge is working like a charm again.

Not so, the fairly new washing machine. It never cleaned clothes well. It broke the first time at less than one year, then again at three, and at four and a half. This time the balance system went wonky, or should I say walky? Now the machine thumps halfway across the room rather than spin circles.  Spinning in circles isn’t good for people, but it is for washers. Someone please tell the designers. I’m too busy researching what not to buy this time. Never mind Consumer Reports. Now I’m reading epinions.com, pissedconsumer.com, etc.

My washer’s poor design was out of my control. The reviews that labeled it the top performing top-load washer were out of my control. The price of the broken part is out of my control, $90 for a “rotor position sensor”, Greek for “I’ll jump up and down because that’s my senseless disposition”. The break’s timing, right after the fridge, was out of my control.

Whether I throw good money after bad to fix a clothes eating monster, a Kenmore Oasis, is in my control. I won’t buy the Whirlpool Cabrio either. It’s the same thing under original manufacturer’s name. Consumers of the internet have spoken. Both tangle, wrinkle, and eat clothes. Both allow small things to escape the washer and ruin the pump. Both have bad control boards and end up with broken balance systems.

Too bad I love the dryer, doomed for a dumping by association. I’m color blind for people, but appliances are different. Can’t have a blue dryer with a white washer, right?

So, why am I complaining about appliances breaking in a writer’s blog? It’s all about pieces that unbalance peace as a whole. My book’s current 5th chapter was the first I wrote, dumping my protagonist into a hostile dessert, not desert, territory. My supposed high efficiency washer was my first bought since we moved to Florida, hostile laundry territory due to desserts like blueberry and mud pie, plus muddy bayous, sandy beaches, camping and hurricanes. Neither my book’s first chapter nor my washer could cut the mustard, let alone the blueberry stains.

A few years ago, I found out Emerald Coast Writers' critique group could help me fix my book without stealing my story ideas. I ended up writing a new first chapter, setting up the later chapters. By the time I realized neither new beginning nor new washer were problem free, it was too late to go back. I’d sold my old washer and learned too much about writing to revert to the original first chapter. It was necessary, like my washer, but unlike my washer, not the place to begin.

I tried to work around both problems—both bucked and stomped around. I can’t begin to tell how many times I rearranged clothes in the washer and scenes in my book to get a perfect balance, until I realized I was using the wrong repairman. A book meant for young teens to read needed middle grade reviewers, not adults. At last I got them, a whole class of 7th graders. So unlike the never-ending wash cycle, my book is now finished, balanced. Old and new scenes blended into a climax the whole class loved. How do I know? The teacher said so.

Beep-beep, all done—the school year is over. I think I made that break, but not without a lot of help. Now it’s time to shop for a washer. Any ideas? If not, I’m all washed up. No, this time I’m going to clean up.

 Sorry, but I don’t know yet.  It doesn’t matter to anyone who didn’t enter the writing contest, but to Mrs. Beard’s 7th grade students, it could be the start of a writing career, or at least the start of an interest in writing to further another career. There’s no doubt writing skill betters a person’s chances of doing well in most jobs. In fact, many jobs require writing on a daily basis—some more than others. At a local middle school’s career day, an accountant said a large part of his income depends on his writing skills, not his math skills.

This year I’ve had great fun at middle school both reading seventh graders my book and teaching them writing in return. While my biggest concern was increasing their interest in reading my book, underlying that concern was increasing their interest in reading, period. Without developing an interest in reading, it’s a sure bet no one would develop an interest in writing. To me, the world always would have seemed a sad place without good books to read.

Now, I’ve added writing to my idea of a fulfilling day. I hope Mrs. Beard’s 7th graders make the same transition, but if not, I hope they’ve learned to stretch their imaginations enough to enjoy reading as recreation. What other hobby can be so educational and fun while taking you worlds away without leaving the planet? Don’t say movies without realizing that most of those originated as a book, and all as a written screenplay.  Anyway, wasn’t the book better?

Next week, I’ll announce the winners of the Emerald Coast Writers’ contest for students. As of now, I don’t know any student’s name. I avoided finding out who did or didn’t give each chapter of my book a positive review on purpose, so the students who didn’t like it wouldn’t be afraid to tell me the worst. With the end of school next week, I can find out who really won the chapter reviews and also announce the writing contest winners by name.

There’s no doubt I won too—a great opportunity to work with Mrs. Beard and her students. I will be forever grateful. Someday I hope to recognize the name of one of these current 7th graders as the author of a book I want to read. I expect it’ll be better than the movie.

 The subject isn’t setting clocks, but moving forward, in time.

Sometimes I wonder if I have a sign on my back saying, “Kick Me!” Parents know that sign comes with children. The older they get, the worse it gets. But anyone who does their own taxes and has their own business or rental gets another “Kick me” sign from the IRS. Add more signs for disasters at home, appliances breaking, roofs leaking, etcetera. We had both last month. And an unexpected family emergency that kept us home from a church youth trip. Might as well plaster those signs on our windows.

Through all this stuff, did I ask myself what I did to deserve it? Not much. Without explanation, that might seem like a fatalistic point of view. So here goes. It’s too late to change the past. Once I decide if I made a mistake that I can correct in the future, i.e. by repenting, apologizing, or taking different actions, further thinking back is backwards thinking, a waste of time. If I did something wrong, my time is better spent dealing with the problem in time, as in now. If I didn’t do something wrong, springing forward is still the only way to get over a setback.

I know I taught my children right from wrong at an early age and repeated it often enough. But parents can’t make all their children’s choices for them. At my age, I still haven’t got it down. Even if most of my bad choices relate to forgetting something, I can’t expect my kids to make perfect choices. Sleepless nights aside, I’m happy for any sign of improvement. And some of my children are managing their lives well enough that I know I did something right, sometime.

As for taxes, the government officials who create the tax code prefer we hate spending time doing taxes enough to skip deductions. That way they get to keep more of our money. The whole system is geared in their favor, like slot machines. The odds are against people having enough patience or time or knowledge to keep the required records and then plow through all the paperwork necessary to keep every penny they’re entitled to. I just grit my teeth, harness my husband to the plow long enough to account for his own spending, and get it done.

It’s a waste of time asking if I deserve a leaky roof and a broken fridge because there’s a law written somewhere—it never rains but it pours. Anyway, that rain helped our loquats grow into a bumper crop, never mind that we’ll have to give most of it away because of the broken fridge and lack of time for canning. At least I have a fridge with food in it—and a roof.

I spoke of adversity last week to the 7th grade class reviewing my book. At their young ages, 12 through 14, they weren’t sure what adversity meant. I told them some people see their troubles and trials as opportunities rather than adversities, but not always while they’re happening. I wonder if one day a trial will make me smile and say, “Open the door. Opportunity knocks.”

I’m walking to open the door, if not springing forward to open it. During all my recent trials, I kept writing. Sure, it was a half-hour to an hour at a time, but I wrote. In fiction, problems drive the plot. And due to my own trials over the last month, I found ways to make my character’s problems worse. The 7th graders suggested more ways. According to one reviewer in the other class that recently began reading, my book’s beginning is “way better”. Knock-knock!

Emerald Coast Writers put on their 2011 conference last weekend, a chance for writers to clean up our acts—and facts. Writing is all about cleaning. We clean up our mistakes, grammar and punctuation. We clean up our style to make it interesting and easy to understand. We clean up our schedules to make time to write. We clean up our facts so we won’t get sued. Vincent O’Neal even taught us to clean up our acting—using acting techniques to make our writing on the page reach out and grab the reader like actors do. There’s almost no end of cleaning before we can sell and publish our work. And then, of course, we hope to really clean up by publishing a best seller.

I loved conference, even if a few things didn’t go as planned—minor glitches due to unforeseen circumstances. For example, only one of the 7th graders I’m working with at a local middle school turned in an entry for the student writing contest. The students didn't have time to write in class because of FCAT studies. But no problem at conference got so messy as to make me regret paying to attend. Quite the opposite. The organizers responded with nimble reflexes and quick thinking to straighten things out. Lee Thomas and Joyce Holland put their hearts and souls into conference, along with many other volunteers. Kudos! As a result of their hard work, I am so excited I can hardly contain myself—even though I made a mess of my own plans.

I clean forgot to ask Betsy Mitchell, Editor-in-Chief of Del Rey, to read a page or two of my work to give her more incentive to refer me to the middle-grade editor in another department within Random House, a huge publishing house. I did remember to ask Michelle Richter of St. Martin’s Press, and she said, “This looks pretty good.” She asked me to email her, which I will in a few days. I want to give her time to breathe after she gets back to New York. I had given Dianne Hamilton of OnStage Publishing my first chapter before my appointment. But I was so engrossed in suggestions she made, I forgot to ask if she would be interested in seeing more. There’s another mess I have to clean up later.

The chance to have other writers—great writers—critique my work was the best thing about conference. I had just written a new opening for my book, one meant to hook reluctant readers better than the original, because one seventh grader, a female, mentioned my book’s opening didn’t hook her in as well as it could have. She suggested a back-flash. I didn’t do that before because of word count limitations, but after dividing my book last summer, I had room. So I wrote the new opening scene and brought it to conference for expert critiques. Am I glad I did? YES! Oops, we’re not supposed to yell.

Kathy Carmichael helped me get into a closer point of view and wanted the emotional hook right at the beginning. I knew from previous tries that most men prefer action over emotion, so I asked Vincent O’Neal and Victor DiGenti their opinions too. I got Vinnie’s that afternoon, went home Friday evening and rewrote my first section, marrying the male and female suggestions. A good marriage is all about compromise. The result was much more compelling than either male or female version alone.

Saturday morning, I got Victor’s, Dianne Hamilton’s, and Benjamin LeRoy’s critiques and blended those in. Benjamin seem surprised I actually liked getting criticism. But how else am I going to perfect my work?Dianne is such a great editor; she set my brain on fire. She caught inconsistencies with teenage behavior I had passed right over. I’ve only been working with seventh graders since January, not long enough to catch every nuance. I memorized a few of her suggestions so fast I included them in an afternoon reading of my first page in Joyce Holland’s workshop. The workshop attendees really liked that opening and Joyce said my writing has improved a lot in the three years since she last read it. Then I really messed up by failing to mention that although a seventh grader inspired me to write that new opening, it was Kathy, Dianne, Benjamin, Vincent and Victor who helped me clean it up. So I am now giving credit where credit is overdue.

Please forgive me for being so excited about the seventh grader who inspired that section that I forgot to mention the adults who did the final polishing. I hope I can return the favor someday. But if not, I will continue helping the students get story ideas, develop them, write them, and then clean up their own work. Emerald Coast Writers agreed to sponsor a student writing contest for these seventh grade students. Although it is delayed because of FCAT preparation, the wonderful reading teacher said she’ll give the students time to write during class afterward. I would mention her name if not for privacy concerns. Without written consent, the students have to remain anonymous, but the winning entries will be announced before school ends. I hope they clean up!

This entry disappeared off my website. I’m not sure how, but it did. And since I didn’t pre-write it elsewhere, I’m glad I can redo my blogging easier than some other areas of life.

I’ve been digging for gold this year. Not on the beach or in the water, but in a class of young teenagers, ages twelve through fourteen. I’ve met with them on an almost weekly basis since January as they reviewed my book, helping me eliminate any confusion, punch up the action, etc. I aim to tune to their middle-grade frequencies like my husband’s metal detector tunes in to the gold left on our beaches by vacationers. But I’m finding more gold.

I don’t have to dig as much as I have to aim for the sky and shoot the best words I can. If I hit the right target, the interest zone of these students’ hearts and minds, they smile big enough for me to see their gold fillings—and braces. Okay, so I don’t check my adorable (don’t tell the boys I said that) gift horses’ mouths for gold. Their opinions are the gold I seek.  

It wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t give something in return. I know life isn’t supposed to be fair, but I try to live by the golden rule. I didn’t walk into the class before Christmas vacation for the first time without an idea of giving them at least as much, preferably more than they gave me.

I wanted to instill in them the same love of reading I found at age nine when I discovered the Lord of the Rings. When the ring wraiths rode by, I hid under my bed while the hobbits hid under a ditch bank. Then at school I discovered I Robot. Tolkien and Asimov started me on a journey I’ve never regretted, except when I didn’t have time to read.

About five years ago, I made another golden discovery—I can read and walk at the same time! Better than walking and chewing gum any day. About the same time, I realized I wanted to write for young teenagers. Since then, I’ve read more middle-grade fiction than anything else.

For my golden boys and girls, I want to do more than help them love reading. I want them to learn to love writing. So we’ve discussed how to get and develop story ideas. I put in a request to Emerald Coast Writers for a student writing contest, and they agreed. Now I hope to turn this coast from emerald to gold. If a love of reading isn’t enough to enrich these young teenagers’ lives, there’s no limit to the treasure they can add with a love of writing.

Two steps forward and one step—in the crap. If I said “one step back”, someone might mistake the meaning.  And make no mistake, I’m not referring to dancing. When I take a step back, it’s into a mess of some sort. Funny how life takes me down a peg whenever I start to feel confident, like I can do anything. That’s when I find out I can doo-doo anything.

Last week I entered two writing contests. One was about Boo-boo, my cat who died of toxoplasmosis in October 2009. I’d been putting off finishing Boo-boo’s story for a long time. The story was fiction, in part. But the name and manner of death were real. Boo-boo’s story began when my husband found a tiny tabby kitten in the back of our trailer after he emptied out the trash at the landfill. This kitten wasn’t big enough to eat the rat or half-snake its wild mother had left with it. Hubby named the kitten for its mom’s mistake. She never returned to her baby.

After failing to get the kitten to drink milk from a bottle, I put it in with our semi-tame mother cat’s litter of five. It worked. Though two weeks younger than the other kittens, Boo-boo thrived and ended up on top of the cloud of orange fluff. And he grew into top-cat of the neighborhood. We found other homes for all but one kitten, Furball, from the mother’s natural litter, and he would have nothing to do with her. Boo-boo, however, became her constant companion. He always had her back, as shown in the picture. He helped her gain courage to not take off running whenever a human approached. She even followed him inside the house on occasion.  Until he died, at the age of 7.

I didn’t mean to turn this into a sob-story, but all good things come to an end, at least in mortality. With three cats and who knows how many raccoons eating the cat-food, no one noticed Boo-boo wasn’t eating until too late. One day, he almost fell over when I reached down to pet him. Hand-feeding kept him alive while he took medicines, one after another, but nothing worked. He went blind, and then he died. By that time I felt like crap for all the suffering he went through for two long months. But I couldn’t put him to sleep without trying to help him recover.

That was a giant step back, into the crap, for me. I seemed like any choice I made was a huge mistake. In reality, some situations have no choices available to bring a pleasant outcome. I think Boo-boo’s illness was one. Other situations depend upon someone else’s choices, not mine. I can blame myself, but a pity party will change nothing for the better. How depressing.

So I choose to take action of some sort, even if it’s an undeserved self-reward like a walk around the block with a fantasy book. Do that twice, and I’ll earn an even better reward, ice-cream with fudge sauce, a banana, and almonds. Too bad, there’s not often time to do those things in the middle of an unpleasant situation, so I hold that thought until I get through the worst of it. If there’s chocolate anywhere, I’ll sneak a bite, or read the comics. Don’t laugh, but it even takes chocolate for me to face working on finances.

For any bad situation of more than short duration, I pray. Perhaps not an option for someone who doesn’t believe in God. But for me, prayer brings hope—and patience—and an attitude adjustment.  I saw a Facebook post the other day from a friend who was feeling depressed. Strange, how the timing coincided with me finishing Boo-boo’s story, which made me feel sad all over again. So I had to pray one of my gratitude prayers. Those are the ones when I don’t allow myself to ask for anything. Instead I thank God for all the blessings in my life. By the end of that list, I feel better every time.  Next time, I think I’ll thank him for my two feet, which allow me to take two steps forward for every step back.

Today I was feeling sorry for myself because in the last few months, I spent at least a week fixing my laptop to run like new. Then it died—on Sunday—at church, when I tried to play an mp3 file for choir. At first I wondered how it always turns out my good deeds get punished. But now I decided there's a better way to look at it. My laptop died in a good cause, giving service to others. I hope I go out that way, stepping forward in service of a good cause..