To J.

The other night at Quail Ridge Books, a woman waited until the signing line was empty and then came over to me. She'd been in the store to pick up some CDs, heard me start talking, and stayed. When I finished, she bought a copy of Children No More.

She asked if I had ever served.

I said no. Nixon canceled the draft a few weeks before I would have had to decide what to do.

She nodded. Would I, given all the bad things that happened to me in the Young Marines, have gone into the Marines? She watched me very intently as I spoke.

I told her the truth: Yes.

Why, she asked. Why, after all that abuse, all that pain, would I have gone into the Marines?

I told her the truth again: It's hard to explain, but I came out feeling like a Marine. I couldn't have imagined being part of any other branch.

She nodded and pulled a photo from her wallet. It was J-, her son, in his Marine dress uniform. He'd dropped out of college and joined. Now, he was just back from Afghanistan, where he'd done a tour as a sniper. He wouldn't talk about it much, hardly at all, but when he did speak of his time there, it was about the kids. Kids trained to throw IEDs at them. Kids trained to shoot them. Kids caught in hot zones. Kids he'd physically pulled behind his body to protect. Kids he was able to save, kids whose parents brought them into their homes for horrible-tasting tea the next time they entered that village. Kids...she paused and looked into nowhere.

We both knew those were the ones he couldn't save. Neither of us spoke.

After a few seconds, she leaned a little closer and stared again at me. Would he be okay? Would he get over it in time?

I told the truth once more: I don't know. Probably better in time, probably never back the way he was.

She nodded. I wasn't surprising her.

J. loved sci-fi, she said, read it a lot.

She straightened her shoulders. He probably has PTSD, doesn't he.

Yes.

Like you?

Yes. Like me. Like a lot of people: many of his fellow vets, abused kids, trauma workers, cops--many people.

And there's no shame in it, is there?

No shame, I said, not to me. No shame.

She nodded again.

I signed the book to J. I asked her to remind him of something he already knows but will be prone to forget.

He is not alone.

There are a lot of us.

He is not alone.

She smiled, thanked me, and left.

It took me until now to write about it.

J, if you're out there, and you read this, it will get better, you can seek help--there is no shame in that--and you are not alone.

One of those nights

Out of a clear and happy night a fog of melancholy settled on me, and I can barely see across the office. Time to go stick holes in my arms: my every-three-weeks allergy shots.

To keep you company, here's a lovely song that feels right just now.



Me, I have a date with a couple of needles.

My reading/signing at Quail Ridge Books

This fine local bookstore has been a part of Raleigh for over two decades, and I've always appreciated the chance to do a reading there. At the same time, I feel guilty begging my friends to attend these things, particularly given that most of them already know the books.

Most of the roughly two dozen people who came tonight were friends, but a bit over a third were not, which was a nice treat. To offset the darkness of some of the things I've been reading and discussing in support of Children No More, I read aloud for the first time the entire "Lobo, Actually" short story. I hadn't looked at this piece for months, so I was pleased that it felt good to read and seemed to go over quite well. It really is a sweetly sentimental tale, an odd departure for the Jon and Lobo universe.

I'm generally rather reluctant to post pictures of myself, both because I hate how I look and because doing so feels a bit too much, but enough folks have given me grief for not putting up any that I'm offering this one, courtesy of Gina.



I had quite a few interesting conversations while signing books, which was a bonus, and I also got to visit briefly with a few friends. All in all, a reasonably good night.

Lessons from a militarized childhood: There are only two ways out

(In this entry, I assume you are aware of my goal of raising a lot of money to help child soldiers by donating all of my earnings from sales of the hardback of Children No More to Falling Whistles. If you're not, you can go to the Children No More site and learn more there. I'll be here when you return.)


What I experienced in my three years in a militaristic youth group is nothing compared to what true child soldiers undergo. I believe, however, that they and I, as well as many abused children, emerge from our experiences having learned many of the same lessons. To help folks without these backgrounds understand some of the challenges facing these kids--and those who seek to help rehabilitate and reintegrate them--I'm going to talk about some of the lessons I learned--and that I believe they did, too.

Before I do, though, I want to make clear that I know how unhealthy these lessons are, I don't live my life by them, and so on.

They are, though, what such kids learn, and they are what I learned at that age.

Also, beware that there's going to be rough language and generally harsh stuff in all of these lessons. That's the nature of them.

Enough disclaimers. Let's get on with today's lesson:

There are only two ways out

At first, you think crying will work. If you show your pain, they'll notice, ask what's wrong, and then in horror take you away to safety.

A few beatings later, you know better. They don't want to hear, and if you make them, they'll punish you for lying.

Next, you wonder if fighting back will get you out. After all, in schools, it gets you a spanking and some isolation time in detention. Being alone looks good, and a spanking is nothing, so you yell, refuse to obey orders, throw a punch--whatever it takes.

A few more beatings later, you know better. The sergeant may show you how quickly he can hurt you, or he may leave it to your squad mates, but one way or another, they'll deliver a clear message: Fight back, and we'll beat you down.

Maybe you try to run away, but they catch you. You're a kid, and they have all the resources.

Sooner or later, you realize the truth: the only ways out are to get so big that they can't legally keep you, or to die.

The first path takes time, a lot of time, and time translates to pain. You're not sure you can do it, but you do know it will eventually work.

The second path can be much quicker. They might screw up and kill you, but you know that's unlikely; they're way too skilled for that. No, you'll have to do it yourself. So, you consider that option. You think about it from every angle. You figure out half a dozen ways to do it, and you analyze all the pros and cons of each: How quick? How painful? How messy? Do you want it clean and tidy for the ones who find you, or do you want to leave a final "fuck you" for them?

In the end, you decide that killing yourself would be letting them win, and you will not do that. You will not. When you hear of those who did, you shake your head and tear up in knowing sympathy, but then anger replaces everything else: they gave up. They let their torturers win.

You won't be that weak.

You wait, you grow, you measure your strength, and you know one day it will be enough.

Years later, a friend, a wise man, a man you respect, asks why you didn't leave. You answer the question nicely, but inside you remind yourself yet again of another lesson, that their world is not your world, that they will never understand, that they are lucky never to have had their options reduced to these two.

Lessons from a militarized childhood: Anger will save you

(In this entry, I assume you are aware of my goal of raising a lot of money to help child soldiers by donating all of my earnings from sales of the hardback of Children No More to Falling Whistles. If you're not, you can go to the Children No More site and learn more there. I'll be here when you return.)


What I experienced in my three years in a militaristic youth group is nothing compared to what true child soldiers undergo. I believe, however, that they and I, as well as many abused children, emerge from our experiences having learned many of the same lessons. To help folks without these backgrounds understand some of the challenges facing these kids--and those who seek to help rehabilitate and reintegrate them--I'm going to talk about some of the lessons I learned--and that I believe they did, too.

Before I do, though, I want to make clear that I know how unhealthy these lessons are, I don't live my life by them, and so on.

They are, though, what such kids learn, and they are what I learned at that age.

Also, beware that there's going to be rough language and generally harsh stuff in all of these lessons. That's the nature of them.

Enough disclaimers. Let's get on with today's lesson:

Anger will save you

At first, you expect someone who's supposed to care for you to rescue you. They have to notice. They have to come.

They don't.

You learn that they don't want to see. They won't save you.

You turn to those around you. Surely they will see how bad this is, how much pain it's causing, and then they'll be the ones to rescue you--or at least to stand with you and help make it stop.

They don't.

You come in last on a run because you're out of shape and you're by far the smallest. The sergeant says that everyone gets another run instead of an afternoon break. That night, they hold you down, cover your mouth, and make sure you understand that you will run faster next time. No, they won't save you.

You can't stop it, so you can't rescue yourself.

You can get mad. You can refuse to break. You can scream at them, sometimes out loud, mostly in your head. You can't protect your body, but you can hold that rage in a secret spot they can never touch. Even better, the more they hurt you, the stronger it gets, so all they can do is make you angrier. When you hurt, when you feel weak, when you think you can't take it any longer, when the cold of your world is so great you're afraid you'll freeze and crack, you warm yourself with it, a flame that will never die.

Nothing else may help, but your anger will save you.

Years later, they wonder what keeps you going, why you will continue to push ahead when others around you are giving up. They can't see it, but that flame is still burning strong, still warming you, still powering you.

Still saving you.

My reading/signing at McIntyre's

One of the crueler lessons of writing is that unless you're quite well known or you have someone heavily shilling for you, you tend not to draw many people to a reading. So, on the one hand, the attendance of 14 at McIntyre's yesterday was quite respectable. You can see many of them in this photograph, courtesy of Gina.


For those wondering, the guy with his back to the camera who is taking his own shot of the space is my friend and fellow author, David Drake.

The true story, however, is that 13 of the 14 people were friends, folks who quite graciously showed up to support me (well, one came primarily for the food, but she sat through the reading as well). I am lucky to have such good and loyal and supportive friends.

That left me, of course, with only one person to whom I might sell a book--the ultimate purpose of these gigs. I don't know if I convinced her to purchase Children No More, but I did try. I read both a couple of chapters from the novel and a few other short pieces, and I talked about the charity program and the plight of child soldiers, as well as my own related background. In the past, with only one person I didn't know in the crowd, I would have considered blowing it off, but I vowed a while ago that if anyone at all showed up, I would give it my best.

The good news for the bookstore is that my friends predictably all love books, so even though we didn't move much of my stock, we made a lot of money for the store.

I'm going to hope--and work--for a much better result at Thursday's event.

UFC 118: How we did

Even though quite a few of its fights went to a decision, UFC 118 proved to be a great card. Before I briefly recap the matches, however, let me get to the bottom line: Kyle and I disagreed on three picks, and he won two of them. Kyle wins for the second time in a row. I clearly need to improve my game.

Now, the undercard.

Mike Pierce vs. Amilcar Alves

This fight never made it to TV, so I have to rely on published reports. From them, it appears that Pierce dominated with for over two rounds before submitting Alves. We'd both chosen Pierce, so we began the night with a correct call.

Nick Osipczak vs. Greg Soto

Just as quickly, we blew it, as Soto defied our predictions and beat Osipczak by unanimous decision in another untelevised bout. mmaweekly.com gave all three rounds to Soto, but the judges gave one to Osipczak. Any way you slice it, we were wrong.

John Salter vs. Dan Miller

This fight, our first disagreement, made it to TV, so I got to watch as Miller shook off whatever was bothering him and, after a lackluster first round, submitted Salter with a beautiful choke. I was now 1-2, while Kyle was 2-1.

Andre Winner vs. Nik Lentz

Spike showed this match, and it was, as I'd said, a classic striker vs. grappler struggle. The problem is, both Kyle and I chose the striker, Winner, to dominate, and instead the grappler, Lentz, controlled pretty much every minute of the fight en route to a decision victory.

This one left me 1-3 and Kyle 2-2.

Joe Lauzon vs. Gabe Reudiger

We both chose Lauzon, and I said it would be by submission. The end indeed came with an armbar, but the preceding few minutes were a tornado of domination by Lauzon. Ruediger wasn't in this fight after its third or fourth minute.

Ah, the sweet sound of a correct call, leaving me 2-3 and Kyle 3-2.

Nate Diaz vs. Marcus Davis

The main, pay-per-view card began almost exactly as I expected it would, as Nate Diaz beat Marcus Davis for most of three rounds before submitting Davis. Davis sure looked like a fighter who needs to consider retiring.

Fortunately for me, Kyle chose Davis, so he and I were now tied in our choices and both 3-3 for the night.

Kenny Florian vs. Gray Maynard

Alas, our third and final disagreement would not go my way. I began my discussion of this fight by saying that my mind said Maynard would win by lay and pray, but my heart wanted Florian. I should have listened to my head, as Kyle clearly listened to his. Maynard dominated Florian in predictable and mostly boring style, so now he gets a shot at the lightweight title.

Kyle was 4-3, and I was 3-4. Not a good night for me.

Demian Maia vs. Mario Miranda

We both chose Maia, and he indeed won in dominant fashion, but to Miranda's credit, Maia could never finish him and instead had to settle for a decision. It's a good thing we didn't have to pick the style of the victory.

At least I was up to even: 4-4; too bad Kyle was now 5-3.

Randy Couture vs. James Toney

It took Couture a few seconds to take down Toney, then a few more to gain the mount. Couture beat on Toney until he seemed bored of doing so, then choked out the boxer. There wasn't a single moment that Toney was in this fight. Couture's victory put me on the positive side at 5-4, and Kyle 6-3.

Frankie Edgar vs. B.J. Penn

Wow, were we--and pretty much everyone else--wrong to pick B.J. Penn to regain his title. Frankie Edgar dominated him for five rounds. Edgar out-struck him, took him down more than anyone at 155 ever has, and managed to get out quickly on the few occasions when Penn had him down. Penn looked befuddled and beaten after the first few minutes.

My head now tells me that Maynard will beat Edgar for the title, but my heart wants Edgar to avenge his only loss. When that fight comes, I'm going with my heart.

Kyle ended at a respectable 6-4, while I was a coin-flip 5-5. I have to hope for a better showing next time!



As always, don't use us for betting advice!