“A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.” —Robert A. Heinlein, Time Enough For Love
Welcome to the Renaissance Humans Newsletter, where I focus on sense-making and story-telling in the turbulent twenties. The Renaissance (“rebirth,” in French) spanned from the 14th to the 17th century and marked a period of cultural, artistic, and intellectual renewal in Europe. A Renaissance Human fosters curiosity, creativity, critical thinking, and character in a journey of never-ending learning. They cultivate Mind, Body, and Spirit, in service of Community, and oriented to the Transcendentals.
Quick note— I just finished a war memoir by a friend of mine, retired Special Forces officer Dan Pace. His book was excellently edited by Randy Surles and Laura Graves — The Story Ninjas, who also did the developmental edit on my novel. This is the review I submitted to Amazon:
Must Read—Honest, Reflective, and Hilarious
I lost count of the number of times I burst out laughing while reading this, causing my family to look at me in alarm. Dan brings a novelist’s eye for character and setting to a compelling ground-level narrative of counterinsurgency war. The footnotes alone are worth reading in their David Foster Wallace-like exposition.
He brilliantly and unflinchingly captures the irony and absurdity of life in the military during the Surge (2006-2008), both at home and on a combat deployment. This memoir provides a rich perspective on war, death, brotherhood, marriage, leadership, and much more. It stands shoulder to shoulder with any first-hand account of the “Global War on Terror”, noteworthy for its honest introspection, sardonic wit, and poignant observations.
This was my Writing Battle Winter 2024 entry. This was a challenge to do in only 1000 words. I started with about 1850, cut down from there. Writing Battle is an amazing community of writers, gathered in a spirit of good-natured competition to help one another improve our writing craft. It’s what I thought Story Grid was going to be, until they went in another direction. For the second time, I went six wins, four losses, just missing the tiebreak judging to make the playoffs. Let me know what you think!
Enemies to Lovers: The Enemies to Lovers genre revolves around narratives where protagonists initially find themselves in adversarial relationships, marked by conflict, tension, or outright hostility, only to experience a transformative journey toward romantic entanglement.
The Character and Object you randomly draw must be prominent parts of the story.
Some writers dream of creating the perfect work of art. A timeless, instant classic bestseller. Me, I just want to pay bills. When legendary producer Nicole Umber called, my credit cards were maxed. She actually wanted me to cowrite on her Chronicles of the White Owl series. Tomb Raider crossed with Ocean’s Eleven. Her assistant texted, “pack an overnight bag.” Thankfully, my oldest is seventeen—she can handle her little sister and keep my dad from wandering.
“Don’t let those boys take advantage of you, hijo,” he called as I left. Still thinks I’m ten, getting bullied on the playground.
I strode into Umber’s office Friday morning, winced as I saw who was inside. Samantha Gregory. She once tweeted an episode I wrote was “a steaming pile of elephant dung.”
Umber looked up, mid-chew on a mammoth burrito. “Dellapenta.”
“Diapente. Please call me Hector, Ms. Umber.”
“Yeah, great. You know Gregory?”
“I’m…familiar.”
Gregory smirked. “On Writer’s Room Podcast, you said I was a derivative hack.”
I shrugged. “If the shoe fits.”
Umber waved her hands. “Listen, I don’t care. I don’t care. I like your work. Both of you. You’re the answer for White Owl. Together. Rick’s downstairs. He’ll take you to my place in the mountains. Come back Sunday with a script. Or don’t. Your call.”
Gregory wore a wintry smile. “I’m game if he is. Provided he brings his elephant.”
Dammit, I needed this. “Fine.”
As we left, Umber yelled, mouthful of burrito, “have fun out there!”
I awoke at dusk, on a gravel road ascending through bushy trees. Still half asleep when Rick’s taillights receded into the twilight.
I gestured with a hand. “Well?”
“Well?” Gregory mocked.
I sighed, walked in. Gorgeous timber A-frame, great room, totem pole pillars. At center, a square skeleton of black metal. An enormous hourglass, rotating struts. I flipped it over. “On the clock.”
For this movie, Umber wanted Sarah Ash—AKA the White Owl, Indiana Jones in heels, to fall in love with her bumbling but adorable archrival, Hank Zecca. As always, she had her stalwart Labrador, Zeno.
Gregory found the bar, poured Pinot into a pint glass. “Whatever. I already have it planned out.”
“So do I.”
We argued and drank. Argued more. Gregory refused to listen to anything. I gave up around midnight. Couldn’t believe I was getting steamrolled. Again.
I started the next morning with strong coffee, crisp mountain air, and an improvised frittata, working my notes.
Gregory slunk out around ten with epic bed head. “Water, coffee, food. That order,” she husked.
Day passed. Hourglass ran out. She flipped it.
I cracked a bottle of Laphroaig. “Think Umber will charge for the drinks?”
“Part of the artistic process,” she answered, watching me. “What’d you do? Before.”
“War correspondent.”
“Iraq?”
I nodded. “Green Zone.”
Samantha sipped whiskey. “When?”
“2015.”
“No shit. I was there. Army. Adnan Palace, near the crossed swords.”
“Used to drive by. Great hole in the wall restaurant that way.”
“Mustafa’s?”
“Yep.”
“Amazing pizza.”
It was late. We lay on the floor, watching the sand cascade down.
Her face was peaceful in the firelight. “We should rest,” I murmured.
“Rest? Hell no. We need the next act, at least.”
“Why are you crushing yourself so hard?”
She turned, and I froze, like a wayward adventurer in Medusa’s gaze. Her stare had a way of seeing into me. To the deeps. “Got any kids?”
“Two. Dad with dementia.”
Samantha nodded. “Married?”
“Widowed. You?”
“Fucker slept with my best friend. Former best friend. But he gave me my Henry, so not a total loss.” She smiled ruefully. “He has needs that aren’t cheap, though. His school tuition is a grand less than Harvard’s.”
I whistled. “My oldest wants college. Father needs full-time care.”
“Excellent motivation. Try not to suck.”
We dozed. Dawn found us somehow spooning, each searching for heat in the throes of exhausted slumber. When she awoke, Samantha put distance between us. “Need a shower,” she mumbled, to paint over the awkwardness.
Later that day, more of the same.
“That beat doesn’t work,” I said. Sand toppled down, down. Why wouldn’t she listen?
“Trust me, it will.”
I outlined how it wouldn’t. She stonewalled.
I could roll over. Done it the entire weekend. I always did. Do it for my family. I tried to tamp it down but couldn’t contain the frustration. “I’m done.”
“What? No. You’re not.”
“I’m going to find a cell signal.”
“Wait. No, if you’ll —”
I slammed the door.
Twenty minutes later, I crept inside. Sheepishly, like a toddler post-tantrum. Needed my bag, could wait outside until Rick arrived.
Sam stepped out of the kitchen. “Hector. Wait.” She handed me paper. “I rewrote it.”
“What?”
“Used your idea.”
“What do you mean?”
She looked down for a moment. “Maybe…we could do a cold reading?”
Scene 47—Proof of Love. Hank stands near the precipice of a cliff, right shoulder bloody. Zeno next to him.
Hank: I can’t believe she’s gone, boy. Never had a chance to tell her.
Zeno: (barks)
Hank: I know. I know. I blew it.
SMACK! A grimy arm comes over the edge. Sarah. Hank helps her. She hands him anti-venom. He slugs it down, holding her.
Hank: You gave up the necklace.
Sarah: (weakly) There will be other…necklaces. Only…one…you.
Hank: (in tears) You saved my life.
Sarah: You saved mine.
Together: I love you.
(Kiss)
We found ourselves face to face. I can’t say who kissed who. I pulled her close. She tasted like dandelion tea, smelled like my abuela’s tulips. No idea how long we kissed. Wasn’t long enough. Finally, I drew back, eyed the hourglass. “We still have time before Rick gets here.”
“Plenty of time,” Sam replied with a grin, pulling a pencil from her braids. When he pulled up, we’d finished a working draft. It wasn’t all we finished.
Next morning, we sat in front of Umber, nursing lattes as she read. She looked up, twinkle eyed. “You know I have security cameras, right?”
This was fun. Misery loves company. No better bonding agent than discord, war memories, and writing.
Great read!!