Just Writing

I've got several different ideas for novels incubating in my head.

I've decided to change my approach and not be so vehemently opposed to writing in any way but chronologically, from start to finish.

Here's an incredibly rough draft of a portion of a scene, from I-don't-know-what-point in one of my novels.

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"Do you know why women tend not to make great leaders, Max?" Arthur asked him. Steam rose from his coffee cup as he poured.

Maxwell stared at him expectantly, slightly hunched over and holding his own fresh cup of coffee to warm his hands.

"I wasn't being rhetorical. Anyway, compassion-" He sat down at his metal desk with a groan. "The moral compass of the average woman is nothing but compassion when reduced to its most atomic level. Like a mother bear, from the moment her cub is born she will come to its side when it cries without fail, climb trees to rescue her cub, carry her cub away from danger with her own teeth for miles, forage for food and find shelter. And she will indiscriminately destroy anything that gets in the way of those things, and threatens her cub."

"That sounds only natural," Maxwell said as Arthur paused to sip his coffee. "Isn't that what any good leader would do? Protect what they love?"

"It is natural Max, you're right! However, there are many ways that this can go wrong. There's more to leadership than this. Let me ask you: the cub has to leave its mother one day, does it not? Would it be natural if it never did?"

"I suppose it wouldn't."

"Why not?"

Maxwell shifted in his chair uneasily.

"Now that you're here with us, I want you to start thinking." Arthur leaned in and smiled. "It wouldn't do you much good if I gave you every answer. I'd rather you be wrong, because it gives you the chance to learn."

"Well, you wouldn't have asked me if it wasn't unnatural," Maxwell said.

"How would the cub learn to survive on its own?"

"It wouldn't."

"And what would happen when the mother bear died?"

"The cub wouldn't survive."

"Now you see one of the ways a woman's compassion can go horribly wrong," Arthur said. "They can raise weak, adult children if it goes unchecked. And what was our society's response? Have the government adopt these adult children. Provide for them. Kiss their boo-boos. Subsidize their dependence. That's slavery, not leadership. A leader will teach his men how to survive on their own, and they will still follow because they pledged their loyalty, or honor, or in admiration, and because they're inspired. A dictator can only be as effective for as long as he lives, even on the off-chance he's benevolent, and his followers are only there because they don't know any different, and would be lost without him."

"What do you mean by unchecked compassion?" Maxwell asked.

"Men are the balance. Men and women compliment one another. If the men are weak or absent, which they were for several generations, the women can fall prey to the irony of their own nature so long as they remain ignorant to it. Their compassion, their love, will become the very thing that kills their child. Some women are like mother bears, and understand that the ultimate expression of their care and attention is to prepare their cubs to survive on their own. But other women do not have their child's best interest in mind. They have their own best interest in mind."

"How were men weak?"

Arthur leaned back and his chair squeaked softly. He ran one hand through his graying, slicked back hair.

"Well," he started. "Men appeased the wrong women for the wrong reasons. They created a monster and then ran away from it. They abandoned marriage, and--along with it--the family. Of course, this all happened well before my time and I'm more than twice your age. The person you'd really want to talk to is Scribe Gregory, in our library at Alexander Station. He can tell you the full story. The man himself is historic; he lived through what we're talking about. Better to learn from somebody with experience. It's been well over a year since I've paid him a visit, I'm sad to say, so send him my wishes. Go see him tomorrow. For tonight, just get some rest."

"I will," Maxwell said, getting up. He took the blanket covering his lap and wrapped it around his shoulders. "Thanks again, Arthur. For rescuing me."

"Think nothing of it. Head down to the other end of the platform. I've arranged a bed for you."

They shook hands.

"Max, hold on. One last thing." Arthur reached into a drawer on his desk, rummaging around for a moment. "Here it is. Take this, and return it to Scribe Gregory for me please."

"What is it?"

"A long overdue book that needs to be returned. Joan of Arc, by Mark Twain. Feel free to read some of it yourself."