The best way to discover which activities you love is to ask yourself, “What am I doing when time flies by the fastest?” To my surprise, I’m finding this happens during opera rehearsals, despite my fear and fretting. Hours whiz by before I think to check my watch, even when my tiny crew of choristers is not being put through our paces. This is because we get to hear the principal singers practice. They know their roles cold – all of them have done this opera before – so they can stop and start on a dime. Amazingly, they can create the magic of this love story, stop in mid-measure to discuss a vocal technicality or a change in staging, and resume creating the magic.

Maybe I wouldn’t have this admiring reaction if we were doing, say, Dr. Atomic, a brand-new opera about the inventor of the atom bomb (now there’s a musical theme for you!) or St. Francis of Assisi, another plot-free modern work that goes on for five hours.

It’s hard to believe, but, like several of the other absolutely classic operas, Butterfly was not well received at its premiere. Don’t you wonder what those audiences were thinking? From this distance, it’s easy to sneer at them, but meanwhile we may be turning up our noses at creations that will eventually become classics. Will Dr. Atomic (which got tepid reviews — deservedly, in my opinion) some day be considered the most enchanting evening in the theatre that was ever composed?

I wonder what it’s like to have a really fine musical instrument in your throat.

One chorus member has had a death in the family, so we are down to four. There are no men in the chorus and we have been asked to perform some work chanteys sung by the sailors in the port. Finally, a moment in the sun for my deep notes! We’ll be offstage. I rather relish the image of four women in kimonos huddling in the wings, putting out throaty yo-ho-hos.

Now they’ve taken away the conductor! Just as I was sinking blissfully into a cloud of relief that I could receive his signals at key moments, I learn that because our performance venue doesn’t have an orchestra pit, the musicians will be backstage, out of sight. We choristers really will be on our own.

Tuesday night we had the sitzprobe. This German word refers to the rehearsal when the singers and the orchestra get together for the first time, after rehearsing separately for weeks. There’s no staging, and one is allowed to have one’s sheet music (whew). The rehearsal hall is empty, as the sets have been moved to the performance hall. I greet the harpist, whom I knew years ago when I was playing professionally, and sit in one of the folding chairs facing the orchestra. I love this. I’m sitting right next to these truly wonderful singers, and, just like them, I stand up when it’s my turn to sing. I taste the secret thrill of pretending I am a colleague, not a peon.

Hey! They’ve cut my lines! * sigh* The actor’s lament. Just as I was proudly polishing my yo-ho-hos – which were the ONLY parts of the score that magically I could get right the first time, every time – I’ve been informed that they have found some actual men to play the (offstage) sailors. Pooey.

As a neophyte opera chorus member, I tried not to be too hard on myself, but after weeks of struggle, I was still rehearsing new apologies and fishing for reassurance from anyone who would listen. I grew up believing that I could and should do anything I set my mind to. It was a momentous discovery in my 20s that I could actually utter the words “I don’t know” and live to tell the tale. Even now, it seems anathema to give up on something I’ve truly tried to do. But I simply cannot find those C# notes during rehearsal, no matter how well I nail them at home. If I try to stuff my pitch pipe into my obi (kimono belt) and sneak it out for furtive bleats behind my fan, they’ll undoubtedly spot it and frisk me every night for the rest of the run. Telling myself that I’m losing IQ points by the day doesn’t help. So, recalling the expertise I used as a cognitive therapist in my former career, I conducted an internal interview, as follows:

How many voice lessons have you had in your life?

One.

How long ago did you sing in a choir?

Several decades.

Did you get individual instruction while singing in this choir?

[Me: smothered guffaw]

When you were living in Italy, did you speak regular conversational Italian or poetic libretto Italian?

Regular conversation.

How long ago was this?

Several decades. One year in Florence.

Is poetic libretto Italian difficult?

Yes, there’s no rational correlation between words and notes.

Have you ever sung in the chorus of an opera?

No, but I was in the chorus of Finian’s Rainbow for six performances when I was 20.

How did that go?

Lots of accidents and illnesses among the cast, most of them onstage. By the end of the run, the head usher was asking physicians to identify themselves at the door.

Were you one of the casualties?

Yes.

What was the nature of your accident?

Broke my foot onstage during “That Great Come and Get It Day.” I still can’t do some yoga positions. I tell people it’s an old dancing injury.

Could this experience have colored your view of the safety of the performing arts?

Gee, I hadn’t thought about that in years.

Really? Let your mind go back to that period of your life…..

At this point I realize I am not dealing with a true cognitive therapist, who would continue the session as follows:

How much are you being paid to sing in this chorus?

Paid?

So, to sum up, you are doing something you haven’t done in decades, in a foreign language, as a volunteer, with limited rehearsal time, at a higher level of expertise than you have ever attempted before. Is this correct?

Gee, now that you put it that way, maybe it’s no surprise that I’m struggling.

This reminds me of an interchange I had with a client some years ago. A musician wanted an orchestra job but feared the tryout, saying she hadn’t been practicing enough. I wasn’t sure whether this was true; she was so self-critical that she never gave herself credit for anything. In the weeks before the tryout, she vacillated between extremes of hope and doubt, unsure whether to even attend the audition. One day, halfway through her therapy session, she said, oh, by the way, she got the job. “Congratulations!” I exclaimed. She didn’t respond with the happy enthusiasm one would expect. (This is not unusual among bulimics). I repeated my congratulations. She shrugged. “They probably gave it to me out of pity.”

“Why would they do that? You’re thinking they’re going to fill the first violinist chair in a professional orchestra, someone they’ll have to play with in public – for pity?”

“Well, they probably knew it was me.” This really baffled me.

“How could they not know it was you?”

“Oh, you can tell sometimes.” This was getting mysteriouser and mysteriouser.

She added, “Maybe they could see behind the screen.”

“There’s a screen?”

“Oh, yeah. Auditions are supposed to be anonymous.”

“Oh, I see. They have a list of the candidates – ”

“Not exactly. The day before, I told them I wasn’t coming. I just went on the spur of

the moment.”

“Let me get this straight. You believe that people who can’t see you, who don’t even

know you are there, who are putting their own reputations on the line, hired you out of

pity?”

[This true story was published in my book How People Recover from Eating Disorders available from Xlibris.com or from me at author’s discount price]

Oh. Unbeknownst to me, he was purposely giving us cues.

What a concept. We redid the passage, and at the key moment, sure enough, he lifted his baton, looked right at us, and signaled that it was OUR TURN TO SING.

Later that night, as I shamefacedly described the scene to my husband, I felt like an idiot for never even imagining that the conductor would actually help us. Pondering a bit more, I realized there were three reasons for my blankness.

One. I remembered from the acting days of my youth that when the stage lights are up and the house lights are down, you can’t see the audience. They are there as a strange, dreamlike, breathing presence whom you are trying to please, but you can’t see them. So while preparing for an opera performance, I assumed I would not be able to see the conductor. I thought he was there in the blackness to watch the stage and try to keep the orchestra caught up to the singers.

Two. I was sure that people onstage are not SUPPOSED to look at the conductor – that doing so would break the illusion of the “fourth wall” (the impression that the audience is secretly peeking into other people’s living rooms). They don’t do it in the professional productions I’ve seen, maintaining rigorous discipline and looking only at each other.

Three. It had never occurred to me that we lowly choristers would actually have someone to rely on, that we wouldn’t have to flounder in a shapeless sea of sound.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Meanwhile, I’m looking forward to seeing my (blond) self in a black wig, white makeup, and kimono. With parasol and fan, I might just pass as a geisha if you’re a near-sighted person in the second balcony. I think I’ll send a photo of this spectacle to my faculty colleagues at Saybrook Graduate School and see if they can guess who it is.

A key character in Madama Butterfly is her little son, who is born after Act I. A toddler when he appears onstage, he is the focus of his mother’s adoration and part of the heartbreaking finale. One day at rehearsal, one of the younger chorus members brought her son to meet the director. However, he is seven years old and a husky youngster, too large for even the most forgiving audience member to mistake for a two-year-old. Certainly too heavy for a soprano to lug around onstage while warbling a lullaby. I wondered if my little neighbor Olivia would do… she is five and part of a family heavily involved in music, dance, and theatre. As we drove to her “audition,” she boldly sang the entirety of the title song of “Hello, Dolly.” Since Butterfly’s little son does not speak or sing, this impressive talent would regrettably not be exhibited to our operatic audience, but I pondered whether to nudge her to sing it for the director. As it happened, he just wanted to talk to her, explain the plot (expurgated), and see how she reacted. He is in his 70s and was a busy tenor for decades, so I imagine he has interviewed numerous tots and knows how to pick the one who will steal hearts onstage without picking his nose or starting to cry.

Behold, she has been given the role! I’m a little nervous about this, as the job of the toddler (nicknamed “Trouble”) is to sit here and there without moving very much. How can you expect a very young child to sit still for so long? But my little friend did splendidly on her first rehearsal. She was more patient than I was! Maybe it was a test, but the director made her wait almost three hours before he called for her to rehearse. All this time, the principals were singing, the stage manager was taking notes and whispering to various assistants, and the conductor was stopping and starting the action to give comments. Olivia sat on her mother’s lap or wandered around quietly looking at the artificial cherry tree, which was being festooned with blossoms by a woman who would stand back, look critically at her work, then step forward to attach another blossom. Olivia had been given her costume, so dressed in red and black embroidery with a flowing red robe, she was a bright little dot in the cavernous warehouse cum rehearsal hall full of people in blue jeans and t-shirts.

Finally, she was called. I was agog* to eavesdrop, but I was sitting too far away.

* Actually, I was two gogs.

I could see her listening solemnly to instructions and dutifully falling asleep on command. By the end of her rehearsal time, she had made such an impression that the director decided to give her extra little things to do. I’ll have to wait until her next rehearsal, or maybe even opening night, to see the staging they’ve given her. Go, Olivia!

                Having inherited a bequest that made me the master of my time, I threw over my position as underpaid factotum in my uncle’s counting house and determined to travel the world. I was jaded and ill-tempered, and thought the change would do me good. I supplied myself with trunks, maps, Baedekers, and every light­weight comfort to be had, and set off to escape the oppressive bustle of nineteenth-century commerce.

My ship was a mid-size steamer of the White Line, and I found that most of the other passengers were old, ill, or bored. Their conversation revolved around the food and their amenities. I amused myself by admiring the cunning devices on the ship — the tube through which the captain could shout orders to stokers, the telegraph that sent signals to the land we were leaving behind, and other navigational instruments that made sailing a science.

On the fifth day at sea, while loitering in the ship’s library, I picked up a well thumbed periodical of the kind which intersperses uplifting sermons with diverting fiction. One tale began promis­ingly: “In the very olden time, there lived a semi-barbaric king….” Ah, just the tonic I needed. “He was a man of exuberant fancy, and of an authority so irresistible that, at his will, he turned his varied fancies into facts.”  This capricious king had a daughter, it seems, who conceived a passion for a commoner. Her enraged father determined to punish the young man. I had heard of such circumstances. The lady of my choice had without the slight­est hesitation yielded to family influence, and — but perhaps it does not become a gentleman to disclose another’s treachery. I distracted myself by relishing the predicament in the tale.

The young man’s fate would be decided in the king’s arena. In the presence of the king, the princess, and the people, he would stand and be made to choose one of two doors. Behind one was a ferocious tiger, starved and ready to spring. If he opened the other door, he would find a fair lady, to whom he would be instantly married amid unrestrained festivities. Only a few of the king’s servants knew which fate lay behind which door.

The clever and resourceful princess used her wits, and her not inconsiderable power, to discover the secret of the doors. Knowing her lover would give her a last beseeching glance as he stood in the arena, she readied herself to give him a signal. Which door would she indicate? I paused, weighing what I knew of her. She was of a firm and independent character — flouting her tyrannical father’s will by falling in love with a commoner made that evident. She had a scheming mind, and the power to bend others to her purposes. Of course she would choose the tiger. How could such a woman endure to be supplanted by another? She must surely prefer that her lover be lost than to think of him in the arms of the lovely maiden who waited behind the other door.

I sipped a brandy and watched the sunset, thinking of the one who had so callously wounded me. The galling truth was, I cared about her still. As I gazed at the horizon, treasured memories passed before my eyes, and I felt an unbidden sensation of goodwill. I decided that the princess would signal her lover to find the lady. Love cannot be so embittered as to destroy its object, whatever the provocation. Love endures — perhaps too long. Was I not on my travels, hoping that time would soften the memory of love disappointed?

Curious to know how the story ended, I read the conclusion. “The question of her decision,” the author wrote, “is not one to be lightly considered, and it is not for me to presume to set up myself as the one person able to answer it. So I leave it with all of you: which came out of the opened door — the lady or the tiger?”

I was exasperated, then amused, by the author’s audacity. Instead of giving a satisfying closure to his conundrum, he had left the mystery ticking like a bomb in the reader’s mind. Doubtless he enjoyed frustrating the reader who liked his explanations complete.

In the following weeks I saw  Tangier, Tunis, Malta, and Cairo. Each city afforded brief moments of diversion, and then my despondency returned. In Cairo I was so listless I returned to my hotel and paced from one lounge to another. There was no library, save a few books in German and Greek leaning disconsolately next to the parasol stand.  All I could find in English were steamer time­tables and descriptions of the city I had already investigated. Restlessly I wandered through the cafe. An inebriated patron was staring in fuddled delight at the nearly empty glass before him. Next to him lay an unregarded periodical which had just arrived in the day’s mail. Quietly, to evade any attempt he might make to engage me in conversation, I seated myself nearby and surreptitiously abstracted it. It was opened to a story titled, “The Discourager of Hesitancy,” and subtitled, “A Continuation of The Lady or the Tiger.” Aha! What luck! Here was the answer to the riddle. Perhaps it would lift my spirits.

Not long after the incident in the arena (the story began), a deputation of five dignified men arrived from a neighboring kingdom to wait on the semi-barbaric king, and were met by the king’s vizier. They had heard of the trial to be faced by the young man, but had not learned of the outcome. Would the king be so kind as to apprise them? Which came out of the opened door, the lady or the tiger?

The vizier smiled and said, “Before you present your request to the king, let me tell you of another incident that came to pass not long ago. A young man of noble birth, hearing of the great beauty of the ladies of our court, asked the king for permission to wed one of them. The strange prince’s presumption roused the king’s fury, but he mastered his anger and ordered that preparations be made for a wedding on the morrow. As the king strode from the audience chamber, the prince asked in perplexity, ‘When am I to see the ladies, that I may choose my bride?’ But there was no answer.

“The following morning a wedding ceremony was held. The prince was astonished to find he would not choose his bride at all. As he stood in confusion, suddenly a silken scarf was wound around his face, so that he was unable to see. All the prince knew of his bride was the gentle, small hand he held as they exchanged vows. The mystery of this practice the prince could not fathom.  Soon the long scarf was unwound from his head, and he looked eagerly around. But no lady was at his side.

“‘Where is my wife?’ he asked.

“‘She is here,’ said the king, and led him into an adjoining chamber. There the prince saw forty ladies, all dressed in rich attire, and each more beautiful than the last. The king said loftily, ‘There is your bride! Approach, and lead her forth! But,’ he added ominously, ‘if you attempt to take the wrong lady from my court, you shall be executed instantly. Now, do not hesitate. Step up and take your bride.’

“The bewildered prince walked up and down the line of ladies. Just then one of the fairest gently smiled as he passed her. Another, just as beautiful, slightly frowned. The prince jubilantly declared to himself, ‘My bride is one of these two.’ It was no small thing to have reduced from forty to two his chances of instant death. But which of the two was his bride? He cudgeled his brain. Would not any woman smile when she saw her bridegroom coming toward her? It must be she. The prince reached out his hand to claim the one who had smiled, but then he hesitated. ‘Perhaps the other is my bride. Would not any woman frown when she saw her husband approaching, yet fail to claim her? Would she not knit her lovely brows?’

“The king’s executioner brandished his scimitar, admiring its keenness with pleased deliberation. He was in truth called ‘the discourager of hesitancy,’ ardent in his duty to put a stop to prolonged vacillation. There was but a moment to decide. The king proclaimed, ‘If in ten seconds you do not take the lady we have given you, she who has just been made your bride shall be your widow.’ The prince could not hesitate an instant. He stepped forward and chose. The bells rang, the people cheered, and the lady smiled. He had taken his lawful bride.

“Now, then,” said the vizier to the deputation, “when you can decide among yourselves which lady the prince chose, the one who smiled or the one who frowned, then I will tell you which came out of the opened door, the lady or the tiger.”

The wretch!  I hurled the magazine across the room. The first time he made sport of his readers was well enough, but only a scoundrel would tantalize them a second time. I heaped objurgations upon his head, not sparing the editor, the journal’s founder, and my sottish neighbor. This worthy stirred slightly, as if regretting he had not been alert enough to behold the earliest stage of the magazine’s flight. I resolved to confine my attentions to people of flesh and blood.

In Alexandria I made the acquaintance of the American colony, which consisted of government officials, superannuated game hunters, retired soldiers, and their families. At an embassy reception held to celebrate Independence Day, the young people were debating animatedly.

“The one who smiled!” declared a young woman. “Of course she was amused. What a simpleton, not to know his own bride! How she was looking forward to teasing him upon the subject later in the day!”

So! The story had reached this shore as well, and caused as much commotion as the author could have wished.

“No, no, the one who frowned,” another rejoined. “She now was seeing him for the first time. Perhaps she was displeased with what she saw.”

“No, that’s not why she frowned,” said a third. “She was thinking, ‘Can you not detect my scent, the special perfume that was my signal to you?’”

“Perfume?” cried the second. “Signal? Rubbish! She was angry he was taking so long to recognize her.”

“But how was he to know her?” put a third, logically enough.

“That’s the very difficulty,” complained one. “And the rogue refused to tell us!”

“I know he wouldn’t,” said another sadly. “I begged him so prettily. ‘Oh, Mr. Stockton,’ I said, ‘Do please tell us which it was.’”

Oh, so the detestable author had been here, doubtless enjoying the effects of his mischief. If I encountered him, I would certainly not play up to him as these ninnies had. I am not to be played upon like a pipe. No, I would turn the tables, worming out of him the secret of his tales. Shamelessly I eavesdropped on the next words.

“Now he’s gone on to Isfahan,” said one with a sigh, “and we shall never find out.” Well, Isfahan was a fine destination; it was in fact on my program. Isfahan is not on the typical traveler’s itinerary — even though its mosques and ruins are among the rarest, its people did not welcome outsiders, and this discouraged all but the most intrepid, or the most indifferent to life. For myself, I had hired a stout guide and felt no fear. Besides, against the advice of all my friends, I had brought Rex, who made an admirable traveling companion. He demanded no conversation, fell in with my moods, and was easily pleased. He loved to sit at the bow of the ship, his nose into the wind. He was exquisitely trained and had excellent manners. He befriended all the English people on board. At ports of call when I wished to visit a native bazaar I never lacked for volunteers to watch him. He would gaze at me mournfully when I went over the gangplank, but I always brought him back a treat –  camel flesh, or mongoose, or implements made of the skins of beasts he had never smelled before. No Irish setter ever had such an education! Faithful Rex was my greatest pleasure, a perfect companion.

Finally I left the coast and made preparations to travel overland to Isfahan. Inexplicably, stout porters were in short supply. I finally discovered they were busy at the quay unloading an unconscionable quantity of baggage from a ship with Greek letters on its prow. Moodily I strolled over and looked at the luggage tags. To my surprise, they all carried the same name, one Frank Stockton. Frank Stockton! The author himself. I had caught him up.

We met. I was crafty. Not indicating that I had any suspicion who he might be, I praised his tusks and spices and carpets and other impedimenta. We exchanged recipes for averting fleabite. In return he admired Rex, and this softened me somewhat. For his part, Rex was in ecstasy. So many trunks to sniff, so many bizarre aromas.

Stockton was a man of middle height, with bushy hair, a forthright gaze, and a plentiful supply of traveler’s tales. He was generous with his belongings, and looked on the world as his playground and on everything that happened as an adventure. In spite of myself, I found him companionable. He was as independent as I, and in a world oppressed by convention, that is no small virtue.

Countrymen who meet far from home often make unspoken alliances, and it seemed natural that we should unite our parties for the overland journey to Isfahan.

A most unexpected event occurred the day before our departure. We were walking through the bazaar, laying in a last few necessaries, when Rex yelped and began pawing at a bundle of rags that lay neglected in a corner. A wail issued from the bundle. It can only be a living creature, I thought. It was, in fact, a baby. We gazed at it, perplexed. No one nearby seemed to belong to it. The crowd melted away; then a few souls inched back to observe our reaction. Our guide, finding we were not on his heels, returned. Seeing our transfixed dismay, he shook his head. “It was adultery,” he said shrugging. “The child will be left to die, or become a slave. It is the will of Allah.” To my surprise Stockton picked it up. He was not indignant or heroic; he made no outraged exclamation. He simply tucked his cigar farther into one corner of his mouth and carried the child — awkwardly, I must admit — at arm’s length. Was it Yankee heroism, or meddling, or merely defying their customs?

“It was either that or leave it behind,” he murmured as we strode along. Just then a small cry came from the wizened face. Stockton started. “Confound it. What shall we feed the creature?” He clearly felt his duty had been done, so it was left to me to call the porter and gesticulate until some milk had been found. This complication added to our baggage and the general uproar that went with us.

As we traveled through the arid, ancient expanse east of the Mediterranean, I pondered my plan to extract from Stockton the answers to his riddles. I knew that the direct approach would fail; he loved nothing better than to enjoy others’ discomfiture. Should I inquire carelessly about how his editor had influenced him, or recount an imaginary wager with a half dozen of my friends? These and other devices revolved in my imagination. But this scheme had to wait, as we had much else to occupy us. We heard about frightfully barbaric brigands in the eastern regions, who caused such terror that the natives rarely left their cities unless driven by some urgent necessity. This puzzled me somewhat. We had seen ourselves that human life was little valued in these parts; did the outlaws impale their victims, or eat them alive, to cause such shudders of horror among a hardened and fatalistic people? But we had pistols and a hunting rifle, so with the bravado of the Anglo-Saxon adventurer we pressed on, and triumphantly added to our recollections the sights of Damascus and Baghdad.

After leaving that fabled city many days behind us, we camped at a curve in the Tigris River, the better to admire the high cliffs opposite and to delve among shards of pottery left by long-vanished civilizations. One morning I awoke to eerie quiet. It took me a moment to place the cause of my unease. There were no familiar sounds of a camp arising — fires being stoked, pots banged, animals scolded. Anxiously I peered out of my tent and called for our guide, for the herdsman, the translator, the head porter. There was no answer. In astonishment I crawled out and found that our entire retinue had vanished. A few bags remained of our once-impressive supply train. Only our interpreter remained; perhaps the others did not trust him enough to include him in their designs. I awoke Stockton and we appraised our situation. He was, as usual, nonchalant. The crew had been terrorized, no doubt, by some superstitious whisper about djinns or magicians. Our rich supply train completed the temptation. Travel to these wilds always entailed such inconveniences. We would manage with the few bags and pack animals they had left us. He would survey our gear, and at the next town we would resupply and find new guides. Stockton seemed almost to relish the challenge, and set about devising new arrangements. The brutes had left behind the baby, of course.

I went outside. The cliffs were breathtaking, soon blotting all consternation from my mind. No doubt Stockton was right. Local help was notoriously unreliable; one simply improvised with gusto and gave thanks for being away from civilization. I wandered along, picking up several curious bits of pottery and a promising old tooth. Turning back, I had a creeping premoni­tion. The silence was even deeper than before. Suddenly, a hundred yards from our encampment a knife was thrust at my throat, my right arm was twisted violently behind me, and I was frog­marched along toward our tent. With horror I realized I had been attacked by the much-feared bandits. Could I warn Stockton? As I opened my mouth to cry out, I saw it was too late. The tent door I had left down was wide open and our animals were gone. Stockton’s cigar was on the ground. He was tied in his camp chair, glaring at his captors. Our interpreter, trussed like a turkey, was white with fear — evidently he knew the abominations practiced by this band. As my captor dragged me in, Rex growled and caught at his wrist. The man aimed his gun. “No!” I shrieked and threw myself between them. I breathed more easily when Rex obeyed my signal and lay down, though he watched suspiciously and made almost soundless rumblings in his throat.

They didn’t tie me, apparently in a hurry to complete their disreputable work, and contented themselves with brandishing a wicked array of weapons ancient and modern. Trying to breathe and gather my wits, I looked at the brigands. There were six of them. Our interpreter whispered, “There are six others outside the camp.” He had gathered something else from their conversation. The desperadoes had fled here from under the very noses of the army sent to capture them, and were recruiting their resources in readiness to retreat into the hills for the winter.

“They must have food,” our interpreter whispered urgently. They were starving, it was clear from their gaunt cheeks and loose clothing. Terrifying they might be to others, but they lived under a fear as great as any they caused. Every man was against them, and nowhere could they call home. I had never realized that the desperate are always fleeing something, too. In the distance we could hear the gun signals of the army.

“Give them our stores,” said Stockton curtly. Good. That would satisfy them, and they would flee their approaching captors. I prayed fervently that they would spare us. One villain who held a knife on the interpreter looked merciless. He would not hesitate to eat us, I was sure. Another robber drove his evil-looking knife into the bale containing most of our remaining supplies, spilling its contents on the tent floor. My heart sank. Even a child could see that there was not enough food for a dozen men for a winter. The villain gathered it up anyway and carried it outside, calling to his comrades.

Our guide blurted out a syllable or two, his eyes turned toward the dog. Rex! The man was betraying us, handing over my faithful friend to satisfy these outlaws. I was speechless with horror and rage. Some of the most brutal in the crew began eyeing Rex with unseemly enthusiasm. I could almost hear them calculating how many meals he would make. Just then the baby wailed and waved its arms, and their attention was drawn to the little figure.

The police guns were closer. Had the bandits gained enough from their raid on us? If they did not leave in­stantly, they would be taken prisoner. If we did not make a move instantly, they would slay us all.

So which did I give them, the setter or the baby?

One of the greatest masterpieces of human rhetoric came from Thomas Jefferson, who was on the committee appointed by Congress to prepare a statement explaining the colonies’ decision to revolt. To this day, we cherish some of the ringing phrases of the Declaration of Independence: “We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” “We mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor.”

However, even Jefferson, the great thinker, writer, and revolutionary, had his prose revised by others. First, let us remember how Jefferson came to be the principal author of the Declaration. History moves in strange ways. It was due to personalities and politics that Jefferson was chosen as the primary author of the document; it was by no means inevitable that his flights of rhetoric and oratory would be the ones to guide the rebels and inspire the new nation. Said John Adams of the events that led to Jefferson’s appointment (quoted in Colbert, 1997, p. 80):

The committee met, discussed the subject, and then appointed Mr. Jefferson and me to make the draft, I suppose because we were the two first on the list. The sub-committee met. Jeff­er­son proposed to me to make the draft. I said, “I will not.”

“Oh, you should do it,” he said.

“Oh, no!”

“Why will you not? You ought to do it.”….

“Reason first – You are a Virginian, and a Virginian ought to appear at the

head of the business. Reason second – I am obnoxious, suspected, and unpopular. You are very much otherwise. Reason third – You can write ten times better than I can.”

“Well,” said Jefferson, “If you are decided, I will do as well as I can.”

Jefferson accordingly wrote up the ideas which had been discussed among the delegates for the previous several years. Changes were made by Congress to Jefferson’s draft of the Declaration of Independence, and he found it hard to stomach some of them. Some of the proposed changes concerned style, and others concerned substance. Below are two cases in which wordiness was removed:

TJ: To prove this, let facts be submitted to a candid world for the truth of which we

pledge a faith yet unsullied by falsehood.

Edited version: To prove this, let facts be submitted to a candid world.

TJ: He [King George III] has suffered the administration of justice totally to cease in

some of these states.

Edited version: He has obstructed the administration of justice.

What is your opinion? Do you think that the changes improved the text? The most famous edit of all was made for political reasons. It concerned Jefferson’s condemnation of the slave trade, for which he blames George III in a passage that begins:

He has waged cruel war against human nature itself, violating its most sacred rights of life and liberty in the persons of a distant people who never offended him, captivating and carrying them into slavery in another hemisphere, or to incur miserable death in their transportation thither.

This long passionate passage was entirely deleted, “struck out,” said Jefferson, “in complaisance to South Carolina and Georgia, who had never attempted to restrain the importation of slaves, and who, on the contrary, still wished to continue it. Our northern brethren also, I believe, felt a little tender under those censures; for though their people had very few slaves themselves, yet they had been pretty considerable carriers of them to others” (quoted in Gottesman et al., 1979, p. 494). Of course, the supreme irony is that Jefferson himself had many slaves and conducted a long affair with one of them, fathering several children with her.

So console yourself. Even the greatest writers have faced the wicked pen of the editor – or even a group of them!

John Adams’s account appears in The Works of John Adams, 1856, excerpted in Colbert, D. (Ed.). (1997), Eyewitness to America. New York: Pantheon. p. 80. Franklin’s anecdote originally appeared in Hazelton, J., The Declaration of Independence: Its History (1906), also excerpted in Colbert, pp. 81-82. Thomas Jefferson’s autobiography is excerpted in Gottesman, R., Holland, L. B., Kalstone, D., Murphy, F., Parker, H., & Pritchard, W. H. (1979). (Eds.). Norton Anthology of American Literature, Vol. 1. NY: Norton. pp. 495-500 .

Well, I’m an author with many half-gestated projects in my computer, not to mention embryos in my notebooks, ova scribbled in the margins of other people’s books…. you get the idea. The problem is that I keep getting new ideas before I can finish the old ones. New ideas are seductive because you haven’t hit the hard part yet. I used to think of the neglected half-written projects as moribund or dead, but one day I read about the kangaroo trick, whose scientific name is embryonic diapause.

[Since we're referring to a pause in the action, not a cessation or death, this word makes more sense than the similar word "menopause." That symptom-rich doorway to liberation should be called "menostop."]

I also started this blog. Some of the best entries come from the “previously dead” files. What a joy to resurrect them! It was like hunting for Easter eggs in my hard drive.

Here’s an even more amazing feat: Let’s say Mom Kangaroo finishes building her baby (the internal phase, that is). It moves to her pouch and begins nursing. If some time later a second kangaroo baby is born while the first is still nursing, the mother kangaroo can simultaneously produce two different formulas of milk, one to suit the needs of each offspring.

Now that’s what I call multi-tasking.

The writer in me rejoiced. There’s a precedent in nature. My staccato writing process is not a sign of failure, but DIAPAUSE! Like a good kangaroo (or armadillo, or badger, or roe deer*), I can time the births — pet my outlines, wrestle with almost-finished chapters, set one idea aside so I can pay attention to a newer one — knowing that all of them are alive and there’s enough time for them all!

* Believe it or not, about a hundred other mammal species can do the same thing–and some people have the nerve to call them “dumb animals”! If genetic engineering were up to me, we’d insert some Diapause DNA in our own genes.

There are even types of diapause. My favorite is obligate diapause (obligate means they have to do it). That’s the trick I’ve been describing – the creature can wait (or shop, if you prefer) for favorable environmental conditions. So when I’m dawdling and my husband wonders if I’m producing anything, I can always moan, “Geez! I’m having obligate diapause!”

If you have some half-developed projects partway down the authorial fallopian tube, halted in mid-gestation, welcome to the world of cosmickangaroo!