Sacred Word: The Writing Life

What Else Am I Going To Do With My Time?

2011-05-08T13:13:00.000-07:00

Irritating...I mean, Interesting article on NYTimes.com. I'm probably a little too bitter this afternoon to write much on this, but this article profiles published writers who haven't quit their day jobs working at the bookstore. Along with the usual banter..."What am I going to write about if I don't have a job" etc., it just reminds me how sad it is that most writers work other jobs to provide health insurance etc. for their families. It would be like Martin Scorsese working at Blockbuster.

Building Your Brand

2011-04-30T07:38:00.000-07:00

You think selling a book is hard, wait until you have to start building your own brand. :) Interesting article on NYTimes.com about self-promotion.

Idlewild

2011-03-27T20:27:00.000-07:00

I just posted a story called Idlewild on my other blog--check it out here--and I thought I should at least jot down a few things about the process. While there is no doubt that much of my work springs from some memory of something that happened to me or something I read in the newspaper or something someone told me etc., this story was written as a sort of tribute to my grandfather.

Leroy Quitman Miller--known as Quittie by everyone who knew him--bears many of the same characteristics of the "Quittie" in this story. While he died of natural causes and never killed anyone (to my knowledge) or took in an orphan (to my knowledge), he did own a convenience store, was married to a woman named Jean (my grandmother), drank his coffee so black and bitter it could have probably fueled his old blue Ford truck, and had a heart as big as Texas.

I miss him.

Students Bash Author's Work Until He Cries Like A Little Baby

2011-03-16T14:18:00.000-07:00

While the title of this post is slightly exaggerated, my students read my short story "Stick Figures," and we had a class discussion on its merits. Coming from students that would rather lose their favorite texting thumb as opposed to reading one of my short stories, the response was rather flattering. What do you expect, right? Of course, they're going to say they liked it...you wrote it...you're their instructor. If that's what you're thinking, you don't know my students very well.

They're not short on opinions and they don't give a rat's @ss if I feel flattered or not. What they did manage to do was dig deep and deconstruct the story in a way that was refreshing and left me feeling optimistic for their future. Now if I can only get them to read one of my novels.

To Teach is to Learn

2011-03-11T21:24:00.000-08:00

The Introduction of A Course in Miracles says that "the role of teaching and learning is actually reversed in the thinking of the world...seems as if the teacher and the learner are separated, the teacher giving something to the learner rather than to himself." The Course goes on to say that "to teach is to learn...that teacher and learner are the same."

While I consider A Course in Miracles a sacred text, this thought is applicable on the natural plane...and never more so than in writing. I believe that in teaching others about writing (whether in the classroom) or on this blog--through sharing my experience etc.--I learn more about writing than I have ever learned as a student.

If, as a writer, you are having trouble recognizing that writing is just as natural as breathing... start teaching. And I'm not asking that you get a job at the local high school...what I'm asking you to do is start talking to others about the craft, find someone you can mentor, find a writing community and get involved. If you haven't convinced yourself that creating is your life's calling, teach what you need to learn...

The Gatekeepers Are Shrinking: a Rant on the State of Publishing

2011-03-06T19:18:00.000-08:00

William Styron was interviewed in the 1954 Spring edition of the Paris Review, and his response to a question about the value of creative writing courses reminded me of one of the reasons why publishing is in a state of disrepair.

Here's the question: What value has the creative writing course for young writers?

And here's the annotated version of his answer:

"It gives them a start, I suppose. But it can be an awful waste of time. Look at those people who go back year after year to summer writers’ conferences, you get so you can pick them out a mile away. A writing course can only give you a start, and help a little. It can’t teach writing. The professor should weed out the good from the bad, cull them like a farmer, and not encourage the ones who haven’t got something."

He goes on to bemoan a New York school which has a lot of writing courses, and he charges the teachers as "mooning in the most disgusting way over the poorest, most talentless writers, giving false hope where there shouldn't be any hope at all...regularly putting out dreary little anthologies, the quality of which would chill your blood. It's a ruinous business, a waste of paper and time, and such teachers should be abolished."

You may think you know where I'm going with this argument, but I may surprise you.

While I have my own opinions of "Creative Writing Workshops" (whether they be conducted in a University program or at one of the many writing conferences across the country) they won't make their way into this blog. And they don't have to. The thing that interests me is Styron's strong words against talentless writers and my repulsion at his condescension against teachers "mooning in the most disgusting way over the poorest, most talentless writers, giving false hope where there shouldn't be any hope at all."

In my opinion, the only way one improves one's writing, is to write. Seems like we should be "mooning" over writers--talented or not, perhaps pointing out things they can work on, but mooning none the less--so they'll continue to nurture their own talent. If they KEEP writing, they'll get better.

But I still haven't gotten to my point about why the publishing industry is in a state of disrepair. At least one of the problems is this: the publishing industry consists of some very big conglomerates owning the bulk of the publishing world. Outside of small independent houses, the gatekeepers of big publishing are a rather small lot. And if they have the kinds of attitudes that Styron has--and they do, let me assure you--then what is going to be published or not is based on the likes and the dislikes of a very small percentage of the population.

Styron is definitely entitled to his opinion, but I have my own. Bad writing and good writing is subjective. It is wildly subject to one's own attitudes and opinions as to what is good (or bad) and when the gatekeepers of publishing are a pretty small bunch, only the selected few are allowed entrance. And add to the mix that they are basing their publishing decisions on yesterday's successes.

Summing up what seems to be an angry rant, there are a lot of really fine writers out there who will never see their stuff in print...unless they (and sadly they do) turn to self-publishing (I'll save the rant on self publishing for another day). This is not to say that there aren't some really fine books being published out there and that there aren't plenty of writers who have yet to write anything worth publishing in the first place. I'm just saying that publishing would be better off--and readers would be able to discover even more new voices--if it weren't monopolized by so few gatekeepers who can't help but have their own opinion.

Writing in the Margins

2011-03-06T13:42:00.000-08:00

Part of the joy of reading a good book is being able to take it with you to the the beach. Or reading on the train. Or in the bathtub. And writing in the margins. Check out this great article--from NYTimes.com--on marginalia and whether reading in the electronic age will ever be the same. Check it out here.

Why Do Writers Abandon Novels?

2011-03-05T19:28:00.000-08:00

Why do writers abandon unfinished novels? Check out this very interesting article on NYTimes.com.

Random & Entirely Coincidental

2011-02-27T17:24:00.000-08:00

I just posted an excerpt--the first three chapters--of my second novel, "Random & Entirely Coincidental," on my other blog. Check it out here. While I don't apologize for the mature subject matter of my work, "Random & Entirely Coincidental" takes it to a whole new level.

I've had an agent for the past five years--and I was working on "Random" when Scribe Agency took me on as a client--so I guess it's been a little over three years since I dotted the final i and crossed the final t. "Random" was an intentional departure from my first novel. While "The Anguish of Angus Bluefeet" approached some mature subject matter, I felt like I had held back on some of the most powerful scenes...particularly those as they relate to a man's penchant for sexual obsession.

I was also reading a lot of Jim Thompson at the time. Pulp writer of such classics as "Savage Night" and "The Killer Inside Me," according to Stephen King, Thompson "went running into the American subconscious with a blowtorch in one hand and a pistol in the other, screaming his goddamn head off."

While Thompson's stories--filled with unredeemable characters--were considered lurid and quite disturbing to his readers at the time (the early fifties), I started thinking of how different they would be if he were writing today...when pretty much anything is fair game. So that's the mindset I had when I was writing "Random & Entirely Coincidental." And while I'm making no comparison between my work and Thompson's, I certainly enjoyed writing "Random" with his stories in mind. My characters are certainly unreliable and verging on unredeemable, but I'd like to think I gave them a little light at the end of the dark road...to help them find their way home.

The Anguish of Angus Bluefeet

2011-02-26T19:24:00.000-08:00

I just posted an excerpt--the first three chapters--of my first novel, "The Anguish of Angus Bluefeet," to my other blog. Check it out here. I submitted it to my agent a little over five years ago, and we still haven't sold it. There are probably some things that I would change (now that I think about it) but I don't want to spend the time that it would require. I've already finished the second novel...and am working on the third...so going back to the first one doesn't make sense. It took over five years to write "The Anguish of Angus Bluefeet," and it was a great learning experience. It would be really nice to see it on the shelves of my favorite bookstore!

Stick Figures

2011-02-25T14:07:00.000-08:00

Just posted a story on my other blog. Check it out here. I wrote Stick Figures nine or ten years ago. Although I had dated a few women with children, I didn't have any children of my own. Very interesting to read a story I wrote about a young girl--who in certain ways reminds me of my own daughter--long before Bella was born.

A Canine Appetite for Reading

2011-02-23T08:10:00.000-08:00

The New York Times reports that a "trove of books that were among the last ones that Thomas Jefferson, the nation’s most bibliophilic president, collected and read in the decade before he died" has been discovered.

Jefferson's taste in books--in his own words, he had a canine appetite for reading--should give scholars further evidence of where he got his ideas and what influenced him. As the article so eloquently states, "the physical collection is not as critical as what it represents intellectually."

I suppose that collecting the video games and dvds of the next generation may provide evidence of where they got their ideas and what influenced them, but sadly...a "canine appetite for gaming," doesn't have as sweet of a ring to it.

Reading the Infallible Word

2011-02-20T22:23:00.000-08:00

While I try to link to books I've actually read--rather than read about--this book review on Salon.com is worth commenting on even though I have yet to read "The Rise and Fall of the Bible" by Timothy Beal. The book, written by a Christian, is an argument against reading the Bible as the "infallible" Word of God, but encourages us instead to read it as a "work of art--that is, as a text permitting multiple interpretations and as a spur to further thought and self-examination rather than as the last word on all of life's enigmas."

People who argue whether the Bible is the Infallible Word of God or can be open for interpretation are--in my humble opinion--missing the point entirely. I don't have a problem saying the Bible is the Infallible Word of God. There, I said it. I could have easily said that the Bible is not the Infallible Word of God. Regardless of my stance, EVERY book is open for interpretation. That's why you have so many Christians believing entirely different things.

Unless God walks in the door and sits down on the couch beside you and gives you His direct interpretation, the only interpretation you are left with...is your own. Ask 100 people to sit in the same room and read a certain passage of the Bible, and I guarantee you that you get an abundance of interpretations.

The fact that all books are open for interpretation is why I value the rich world of literature. Even for those authors who choose to spoon feed me--unless they're sitting on the couch next to me and telling me exactly what they meant by each and every sentence--I'm still seeing the world from my own personal viewpoint. If the author is lucky, I'll at least get enough from my experience that my viewpoint will be expanded just enough to keep me curious on my journey.

You Can't Handle the Truth: Fact vs. Fiction and the Fuzziness of Truth in Literature

2011-02-19T17:22:00.000-08:00

In one of my weekly strolls through the New York Times, I stumbled across several articles that grabbed my attention.

A class-action lawsuit has been filed against President Jimmy Carter and Simon & Schuster--who published Carter's "Palestine: Peace, Not Apartheid" in 2006--alleging that the book was "falsely marketed as an accurate account of peace negotiations in the Middle East." David Schoen--the attorney who filed the suit--remarked that "You cannot market it as the absolute truth on something when it's not."

Kathryn Stockett--the author of the best-selling novel, "The Help," is being sued by Ablene Cooper--a 60-year-old woman--who alleges that "one of the book's principal characters, Aibileen Clark, is an unauthorized appropriation of her name and image, which she finds emotionally distressing."

Two lawsuits--one alleging that a non-fiction book is mostly fiction and one alleging that a fiction book (at least one of its central characters) is mostly non-fiction--will be heard in the near future. If the past holds any clue as to the outcome of both suits, they will either be settled out of court or dropped entirely.

I imagine that Freedom of Speech will be argued, and--unless either case involves a clear case of libel or slander--Freedom of Speech will prevail.

Which brings me to my sudden interest in these articles. I've been posting my unpublished (mostly) fiction on another blog and it has brought up some interesting questions. First of all, I'm not the least concerned about libel or slander in my fiction and non-fiction alike...I'm very careful that all of my characters, incidents, locations, and names are either the product of my imagination or are used fictitiously. With that said, regardless of the fact that I write "fiction," it is often based on at least the emotions behind events that I have either experienced first hand or have read about, heard about, saw on television etc. etc.

Because of the dismal (albeit darkly funny and introducing a ray of hope) nature of most of my fiction, I'm not a fan of the assumption that I'm writing about my own life. While I hope my fiction contains universal "TRUTH," it is far from anything embedded in reality. And thankfully so. Regardless of the fact that some of my stories may start out based on a "real" event, by the time I'm finished, it's hard for even me to distinguish between the two. With that said, I would say that ALL fiction has at least one foot planted--however precariously--in some sort of "real" experience.

And to bring this full circle, I would say that ALL non-fiction has at least one foot planted--however precariously--in the things of the imagination. A book--no matter how fastidiously researched and vetted--always comes to the reader through the lens of its author. I may see something one way and someone else may see it in an entirely different light. What we choose to call something, doesn't make it so.

Finding God

2011-02-18T19:11:00.000-08:00

I just posted my one-act play, Finding God, on my other blog and a few things came to mind. I was enrolled in a playwriting workshop at the University of Montana - Western when I wrote this play over the course of that class. We had a reading in the campus coffee shop--The Cup--and later staged it in the One Act Play Festival on campus. Besides my embarrassing attempt at portraying the play's protagonist, it went rather well. On re-reading it before posting it to my blog--despite having written it over twelve years ago--I still enjoyed it.

You Say You Want a Revolution?

2011-02-16T19:48:00.001-08:00

While I'm just as sad as the next book lover that Borders has filed bankruptcy--and as a result, is closing many of its stores--I am not surprised. The publishing industry has been on the decline for some time now...and had plenty of time to stop it. I imagine I'm not the only one who has grown weary of walking into a bookstore (Barnes & Noble, Borders etc.) and seeing the same titles and authors shoved in my face--with the best shelf space reserved for the houses with the deepest pockets--telling me what's hot and what's not...and rarely giving me the time to find out for myself. Frankly, I enjoy a trip to Half Price Books just as much because I never know what gem I'm going to find (even though I'm a little annoyed that they won't give me jack for the books I sell) but who knows how long even they'll stay in business.

While cognizant of the decline of readers of literature in general--as the bookstores shut their doors and the publishing houses combine into even bigger and bigger conglomerates--I'm not the least bit concerned with the state of the written word. We may--at some point--lose the luxury of browsing the bookshelves with a $5 coffee in hand, but the "book" isn't going away. Writers will find new ways to get our books out there...via the internet...or whatever else comes along (readers will find us) and maybe that "something else" will nourish the writers who the "publishing" world abandoned long before a bookstore closed its doors.

From Your Valentine (for Christie, with love)

2011-02-12T20:04:00.000-08:00

Spent a good part of the afternoon writing Christie a Valentine. Nothing better than posting it on your public blog before you even let her see it. ;)

The Learning Curve

2011-02-10T15:12:00.000-08:00

My students are reading "The Learning Curve" by David Sedaris. An essay from his hilarious book Me Talk Pretty One Day, "The Learning Curve" follows his misadventures as a teacher of a writing workshop. "Like branding steers or embalming the dead, teaching was a profession I had never seriously considered. I was clearly unqualified, yet I accepted the job without hesitation, as it would allow me to wear a tie and go by the name of Mr. Sedaris. My father went by the same name, and though he lived a thousand miles away, I liked to imagine someone getting the two of us confused." Love it!

Manners of Dying

2011-02-09T21:10:00.000-08:00

I just finished a remarkable short story by Yann Martel--author of Life of Pi--called Manners of Dying. A story broken up into nine sections, Manners of Dying is an epistolary tale featuring letters from the Warden of Cantos Correctional Institution to the mother of a recently executed prisoner. Each section is a different version of the events of the last day of her son. One word: remarkable.

Poetry of Protest

2011-02-05T11:10:00.000-08:00

According to The Daily Beast, "protesters throughout the Middle East are using famous poetry as subversive chants against the government." Check it out.

Dropping Bella

2011-02-04T11:34:00.000-08:00

I assigned my college English composition class their first essay, and I thought it only fair that I write my own. I've been wanting to write this essay for some time. And the title has been in my head for several years. Check it out here.

The Most Fascinating Person in the Room

2011-01-23T14:56:00.000-08:00

I'm an instructor at a local college and we're starting a new quarter tomorrow. My students' first assignment is to tell me why they are the most fascinating person in the room. And of course, I'll start things off by telling them a little about myself: I was a professional clown, I'm forty years old, I have a four-year-old daughter, and I write books for other people.

I'll tell them that I hope they learn as much about themselves as they learn about "writing." And that's the truth. There are so many people in this world who know very little about themselves. They don't know their passions. They don't know their beliefs. They don't know what makes them tick.

That's the amazing thing about writing: it gives you the chance to learn about yourself and the world around you. If I can encourage just one person in the classroom (and on this blog) to dig a little deeper, that will be enough. Why are you the most fascinating person in the room? What is your passion? What are your beliefs? What makes you tick?

The Weird Mental Processes of Tim Burton

2011-01-20T19:46:00.000-08:00

So I was reading an article on Tim Burton, and his new "self published" book "The Art of Tim Burton," described by latimes.com as "a lavish art book featuring more than 1,000 images, some of which go back to childhood," and it made me want to rush out and pick up a copy.

I was curious for several different reasons. For one, I'm a huge Tim Burton fan. I love his quirky visuals and his artistic world view. It's hard to explain, but I see him as a kindred spirit. Everything he has ever done--with few exceptions--has inspired me to create something.

With that said, his desire to self-publish also piqued my interest. Burton is quoted as saying he was approached by publishers, "but they didn't seem too enthusiastic." Considering he is a household name, self-publishing is probably not a bad route to go--and he clearly doesn't need the money--but what does it say about publishing when they don't snatch up a Tim Burton project.

But even more interesting to me, was a quote about his process. In speaking of his book, he offers this gem: "It's not showing me as a great artist," he says. "It's just showing my weird mental process, the way things grow. Whether I'm working on a movie or doing a drawing, my favorite time is making it. When I finish, there's a nice sense of accomplishment, but really, it's about the process for me."

I couldn't have said it better myself. It's all about the act of creation. It's all about taking a blank piece of paper and breathing life into it. It's all about getting lost in the world of ideas and somehow being present all at the same time. Makes me want to finish up this post and get busy.

Edgar Allan Poe (January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849)

2011-01-19T14:08:00.000-08:00

The Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
                               Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; -- vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow -- sorrow for the lost Lenore--
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
                               Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door--
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;--
                               This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you" -- here I opened wide the door;--
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"--
                                Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore--
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--
                               'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--
                                Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore--
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
                                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning -- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door--
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
                                With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered -- not a feather then he fluttered--
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before--
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
                                Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
                                Of 'Never -- nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
                                Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
                                She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite -- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
                                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil!--
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by horror haunted -- tell me truly, I implore--
Is there -- is there balm in Gilead? -- tell me -- tell me, I implore!"
                                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil -- prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us -- by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
                                Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
                                 Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
                                 Shall be lifted -- nevermore!

I Have a Dream

2011-01-17T21:05:00.000-08:00

You can't have a blog called Sacred Word, without featuring perhaps one of the greatest speeches of all time on a day that we honor Martin Luther King, Jr.

I Have a Dream
by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.

But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. So we have come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.

In a sense we have come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the unalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked "insufficient funds." But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. So we have come to cash this check — a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice. We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quick sands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.

It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. Those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. There will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.
But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred.

We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force. The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. They have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. We cannot walk alone.

As we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead. We cannot turn back. There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied, as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the Negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their selfhood and robbed of their dignity by signs stating "For Whites Only". We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive.

Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed. Let us not wallow in the valley of despair.

I say to you today, my friends, so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal."

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of interposition and nullification; one day right there in Alabama, little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together.

This is our hope. This is the faith that I go back to the South with. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

This will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with a new meaning, "My country, 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died, land of the pilgrim's pride, from every mountainside, let freedom ring."

And if America is to be a great nation this must become true. So let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire.

Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York.

Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania!

Let freedom ring from the snowcapped Rockies of Colorado!

Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California!

But not only that; let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia!

Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee!

Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi. From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

And when this happens, when we allow freedom to ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, "Free at last! free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"