ACT ONE GOES TO WASHINGTON

In a week, Act One: Writing for Hollywood will head to Washington, D.C. to teach an intensive month of classes on screenwriting and the biz of Hollywood.

Lee and I are very excited to head east, where we will teach a full-day class on Choosing Your Story on May 13th. I will also teach a jam-packed day on Screenplay Structure on May 15th. I'll be returning in early June, at the very end of the program, to teach a class on writing Scene Description and Action.

As we head to Washington, it was lovely to read the following article written by Erik Lokkesmoe, Communications Director of a cultural agency, founding member of The Voice Behind, and (drum roll, please) an Act One graduate.

Above All, Washington: Why a Creative Renaissance is Needed in our Nation's Capitol, and How Act One Can Help

It was more of a statement than a question. "Why Washington?" the senior government official responded, words heavy with skepticism, when I
shared the news of Act One's month-long session in the nation's capitol. His query conveyed a doubt of both place and purpose: What utility does a group of screenwriters provide in a political city, a city anxious about elections and budget hearings -- an administrative city that is impatient with ambiguity, nuance, and imagination?

The question could just have easily been: "Why art?"

Politics may be the art of the possible, but is art possible in politics? In a city of architectural grandeur, National Galleries, the Kennedy Center, and marbled monuments engraved with poetry and prose, discussions (or debates) about the arts rarely stray from stale, predictable exchanges about NEA funding and FCC fines. Art is a second-thought, a first cut of a bloated b udget, a weekend dailliance with lobbyists. Drawing congressional district maps is often the closest thing some Members of Congress come to artistic activity.

So it's an appropriate question for Act One, and for all "creatives" that live and work in the shadows of federal buildings: "Why Washington?"

Last year I stumbled across a new book, now a best-seller by Carnegie Mellon professor Richard Florida, who claimed that economically vibrant cities have two common factors: a thriving artist community and a large gay population. The Rise of the Creative Class became the instruction manual for mayors across the country as economically-stagnant cities sought to attract a hip, young workforce by offering bohemian and business-friendly climates.

What caught my attention, however, was Washington's rank as one of the top "creative cities" in America, as determined by the proportion of creative workers per total workforce population. Although Florida defines the "creative class" liberally -- including scientists, journalists, and entrepreneurs in the category -- it confirmed a growing suspicion: DC was more than starched shirts and above-the-ear haircuts; it was, as the professor wrote, that "ultimate creative center."

Certainly such a claim will cause New York and Hollywood to shudder. Many don't even consider Washington a city, let alone a creative center. Yet the evidence is clear: From bureau reporters to think tanks, legislators to art galleries, dot com survivors to event planners, the capitol city is not only America's backyard, it is the home of culture-creators.

A handful of us who work in government are quick to proclaim that the creatives in the city -- and across the country -- often hold more power than the senior politicians seated on the most prestigious committees. Certainly these lawmakers affect millions with decisions to raise taxes, declare war, and fund Social Security. Artists and creatives, however, are shaping the hearts and minds of the culture, informing the moral imagination and instructing its beliefs and behaviors.

It is no wonder, then, why so many distrust or fear artists. Through the subtle brushstrokes in a painting, the complex melodies in a song, the layered meanings in a film, creatives can exercise a power politicians can only dream of possession: to shape the imagination through words and images and sounds that cascade to the depths of the soul. Only art has that ability, something Plato realized early on when he deeclared, "Let me write the songs [or stories] of a nation, and I care not who writes its laws."

Artists are more than well-trained decorators, adorning culture with nice and pretty things. Artists create space for dialogue, for circles of conversations in galleries and theatres, book clubs and concert halls. They invite us to gaze upon mystery and beauty, and to "see with other eyes, to imagine with other imaginations, to feel with other hearts, as well as with our own," as C.S. Lewis wrote.

Last September, a group of us at The Voice Behind -- a 501(c)(3) non-profit organization dedicated to creating, commissioning, and celebrating transcendent works of art and media -- started Brewing Culture, a community of "creatives" that meets monthly at a bar just across the Potomac. Our hope was to do just that: brew culture by creating space for creativity and conversation.

It's a speak-easy, really. A haven amidst stiff political life for ozone-scraping creativity and gritty-as-a-country-road conversation. We invite everyone -- left and right, churched and unchurched -- into an intoxicating exploration of the good, the true, and the beautiful as revealed through the works and words of artists. From Damah films to Johnny Cash tributes, we enter life's big themes -- wonder, sacrifice, discontent -- and wait expectantly on the other side to see what happens.

As painter Makota Fujimura said over a recent dinner, echoing our passion for Brewing Culture, "We need secular places for the Church, and sacred places for the culture." In other words, we need common ground where we forget to be tame, timid, and temporal in our artistic endeavors and expressions; we need places that capture the imaginations of a weary and watching world.

Responding to the launching of Brewing Culture, many have had the same reaction as that government leader: "Why Washington?" And we respond, "Above all, here." This is a place where creativity that "flies beyond the stars," as Francis Schaeffer said, can teach us about common grace, the Imago Dei, and our inante human need to participate in recreation and re-creation.

This need is evident in the hollow eyes of passengers on commuter trains, the rush hour pressing their bodies together in a rhythmic, synchronized dance as the train halts and jerks away from the city. Imprisoned in cubicles without windows, passing the time with predicable days of the same old work, the creative muscle atrophies. It is no surprise that Washington's suburbs have beautiful homes and gardens, where workers -- free from the confines of gray file cabinets and top-down management -- can design and create and decorate their own space.

Artists are oxygen for a city, and people are gasping from asphyxiation.

What Washington -- the whole Washington, from the pinstripe suits of Capitol Hill to the perilous slums of Capitol Heights -- needs more than anything else is an encounter with beauty, that astonishing handiwork of the Master Artisan and his co-creators. Beauty manifested in eloquent and honest oratory. Beauty evidenced in grace to political adversaries. Beauty extended in neighborhoods ravaged by boarded-up homes and lottery advertising.

Act One's presence in this city, if only for a month, can remind us of our desperate need for beauty, for stories that awaken the moral imagination and allow glimpses of a world, as Os Guinness says, "that should have been otherwise."

It is the right time and the right place for Act One, and our prayer is that these DC screenwriters, like dropping a large stone in a still pond, will reach the boundaries of the city, soften its dry and cracked edges, and bring new life to the surface.

THEFT IS THEFT

Okay, I shouldn't have been so shocked. But I found the numbers a bit hard to swallow.

86% of teens, says the Barna Research Group, do not think music piracy is morally wrong.

I found this quote from David Kinnaman, a Barna VP, illuminating:

"People wrongly assume that teens are just looking for an excuse to rationalize stealing music, to reduce their sense of guilt. But that misses the point: Their entire outlook on life -- not just about music -- revolves around the 'whatever works' postmodern philosophy. According to this philosophy of hyper-individualism, moral behavior is essentially a private, personal matter. Desire, emotion, and personal experience become the benchmarks for determining right and wrong. Authority, truth and even language are viewed as subjective creations of society.

"That's why a legal argument against music piracy rings hollow for most teens: They just don't buy the idea that a company or even an artist can 'own' an experience -- which is essentially what music represents to them -- much less tell them waht is right and wrong. A legal challenge to piracy may temporarily alter some teen behavior, but without changing the underlying philosophy with which teens operate, teens' music theft will just morph into some new form."

I think he's got the teenage mindset right, though I don't know that we can necessarily chalk it up as another outflow of 'postmodernism.'

Thinking back to my own teenage years, slightly before the modern CD-burning era, I did my share of music stealing (I admit now). I made tapes off the radio of the songs I loved, and I listened to them over and over. I was doing the analog equivalent of what today's teens do digitally.

But I didn't do it out of any 'hyper-individual philosophy.' I did it 'cause it was free. It was free, I didn't get nearly the allowance I felt I should get, and I had the equipment to do it. Besides, my cheapskate dad taped classical music for his own enjoyment rather than buying albums, so the issue of whether it was 'wrong' was nonexistent.

Now, some years later, I make my living on 'intellectual property.' So, yes, you can say my position has changed according to what benefited me financially. Go ahead. Say it.

But the fact remains: If you steal something I have written, you have committed theft. If you steal it and put your own name on it, it's a kind of theft called plagiarism. If you steal a copy of it, it's called petty theft (if you steal it from my home), shoplifting (if you steal it from a store), or piracy (if you download it).

Frankly, I don't think it's the Internet that taught us that intellectual property, to use the legal term for the end result of individual and collective creativity and sweat, 'should' be free.

I think we learned it watching TV and listening to the radio. After all, they're 'free,' right? And what's the difference between watching a movie on TV and downloading your own copy?... Maybe if we'd had to pay cash for TV all along, rather than 'paying' with our time by watching commercials, we'd have a different attitude now.

The really shocking statistic from the Barna report? Christian kids download music illegally in basically the same numbers and percentages as all other kids. And they have basically the same responses to the moral issues involved.

We've even seen that in Act One: Alumni who want to make copies of software, or who chat during class breaks about watching movies on DVD that, ahem, haven't officially come out on DVD.

We need to make it clear: Theft is theft. Whether you use a gun or a mouse to commit it.

And if you're hoping to make your living in Hollywood, it's incredibly stupid as well: You're robbing the bank where you hope to work, stealing your own salary before they have a chance to pay it to you.

None of this is new. But it isn't going away. And with 86% of teenagers out there not listening, we have to keep talking.

HARRY POTTER: EVERY OAK STARTS AS AN ACORN

Thanks to all who have liked my Harry Potter essays. As long as you like 'em, I'll keep posting them. (And for those of you who aren't HP fans, don't worry: I don't have very many left!)... Here we go...

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Grown-ups, by definition, are not cool.

When we're kids, we know this. As adults, our children know it.

Harry, Rom and Hermione certainly understand this truth about life. They may inhabit the same environment as the professors of Hogwarts, but the two groups live in separate worlds.

The teachers give the tests, the kids take the tests. The kids break the rules, the teachers catch them. The kids get in trouble, the teachers hand out detention. The roles are well-defined and everyone stays within the boundaries set for them. It's hard to imagine, say, Professor McGonagall figuring out a way to sneak to Hogsmeade if she didn't have a signed permission slip.

And an adult would never, never understand anything as wonderful and dangerous as the Marauder's Map, the magical gift Fred and George Weasley give Harry in Prisoner of Azkaban.

The Maurauder's Map, brought to the Weasleys and Harry compliments of "Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs," is a magical map showing every detail of Hogwarts. That alone would re remarkable enough, given that Dumbledore himself in Goblet of Fire comments that there are rooms in Hogwarts he's never seen before.

But the Marauder's Map is even better. Not only is a complete map, showing secret passages that even the professors don't know about, it also shows the whereabouts of everyone in the castle! An incredible gift for anyone who wants to be somewhere he's not supposed to be.

Clearly the creators of this magical map were on the side of the kids, not of the grown-ups. The whole point of the map is to avoid grown-ups, right? To pull off great acts of skulduggery without being discovered. The possibility, the danger of getting caught only add to the thrill.

As Fred describes Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs... "Noble men, working tirelessly to help a new generation of lawbreakers."

And Harry, of course, uses the Marauder's Map to do just that -- to break the law, specifically, to sneak to Hogsmeade in total violation of the rules.

Imagine his shock, then, at the end of Prisoner of Azkaban, when Professor Lupin shows up in the Shrieking Shack courtesy of the map. Harry can't believe it. "You know how to work it"?, Harry asks.

"Of course I know how to work it," said Lupin, waving his hand impatiently. "I helped write it."

But that's impossible. Grown-ups don't write things like the Marauder's Map, they confiscate them!

Harry has a greater shock coming. Not only did his Professor help write the map -- his dad did, too. And he did this naughty thing to be able to spend special times with one of the most dangerous of magical creatures -- a werewolf.

Now, Harry doesn't have much experience with parents, but everyone knows a parent would never do something that fraught with risk.

Can you even imagine Mrs. Weasley going along with a stunt like that? "That's lovely that you want to spend itme with your werewolf friend, Ron, dear. I have an idea -- why don't you create a magical object that will enable you to be extra sneaky about it?" Nope. Not in a million years.

This map is so dangerous, can you even imagine telling an adult about it? No wonder Harry finds it hard to believe that these authority figures came up with it in the first place!

But through the Marauder's Map, Harry learns something about adults. Once upon a time, grown-ups were children, too. And not only were they kids -- they were often the kinds of kids who did dangerous things, who snuck around hiding from the adults, who teamed up to outwit them, who did things that were unmistakably cool.

"No waaaaay," you say. "Not my dad. He never did anything fun in his life. And certainly not my mom. She couldn't break a rule if her life depended on it!"

But how do you know? Maybe her pre-mom life was more risky, more adventurous than anything you've ever dreamed of. Maybe the reason your parents get on your case any time you want to try something even the least bit dangerous is because... well, because they've done it already themselves. Maybe they know the danger firsthand.

Or maybe they survived the danger, but with damage. Damage they don't want the children they love to experience.

It's almost impossible to conceive of your parents being kids once themselves. Parents aren't real people. We're just Mom and Dad.

As a mom, I learned very quickly that, from my kids' point of view, I'm really just the role I play. Not a person, just a parent. How can I be a real person wheh I don't even have a real name? I go to a museum, a mall, a park with my kids, hear them call me -- "Mom!" -- and turn around only to find that 24 other women have also turned around... because it's their name too.

But once -- hard as it will always be for my kids to understand -- I was a kid, too. Once I did dangerous, risky, foolish things that I didn't tell my mom about. Things I wouldn't dream of divulging in these pages (because she might read them!).

Will my kids ever realize I was a kid? Will they ever realize that, in some ways, I never stopped being a kid, even though I look like a grown-up? I don't know. But if Harry can figure this out, then maybe my kids will too, eventually.

In the meantime.... where did I put that Marauder's Map...?

QUESTIONS THAT NEED ANSWERS

Thanks to my friend Chris for sending me this LOL goodie. (Some days, even on weekends, we just need to read something that makes us laugh...) Enjoy! (And if any of you have answers for these weighty questions, please feel free to post them for all our edification!)

Questions that really need answers...

1. Who was the first person to look at a cow and say, "I think I'll squeeze these dangly things here and drink whatever comes out"?

2. Who was the first person to say, "See that chicken there? I'm gonna eat the next thing that comes outta its rear end"?

3. Why is there a light in the fridge and not in the freezer?

4. If Jimmy cracks corn and no one cares, why is there a song about him?

5. Can a hearse carrying a corpse drive in the carpool lane?

6. Why does your OB-GYN leave the room when you get undressed if they're going to look anyway?

7. Why does Goofy stand erect while Pluto remaisn on all fours?

8. If Wile E. Coyote had enough money to buy all that Acme crap, why didn't he just buy dinner?

9. If quizzes are quizzical, what are tests?

10. If corn oil is made from corn, and vegetable oil is made from vegetables, what is baby oil made from?

11. If electricity comes from electrons, does morality come from morons?

12. Why do the Alphabet Song and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star have the same tune?

13. Okay, you can stop singing now and read on........

14. Do illiterate people get the full effect of the Alphabet Song?

15. Why is it that when you blow in a dog's face, he gets mad at you but when you take him for a car ride, he sticks his head out the window?

16. Does pushing the elevator button more than once make it arrive faster?

And finally...

17. Why do people point to their wrists when asking for the time, but don't point to their crotches when asking where the bathroom is?

"IDOL"? ROLE MODEL? OR WHAT?

Okay, so this is the last place you expected to read about American Idol. Bear with me.

We have become hooked on American Idol in part because it's one of the few prime time shows we can watch with our kids, and in part because our 7-year-old daughter Sabrina wants to be a rock star when she grows up.

(Last year when Sabrina announced her plans to be a rock star, Cory humphed, "I'm glad she's finally chosen a more practical career." "Practical?" we asked. "Well, before," he said, "she wanted to be a princess, and we all know that's not going to happen!"

Only in L.A. is "rock star" the "practical" choice of career. Sigh.)

Okay, so back to AI. Last night, a shocking choice was made that reflects in a fascinating way on the state of American pop culture (I'm not sure how yet....).

For the uninitiated: On AI, each week, each contestant sings a song live on TV, the viewing public has a couple of hours to vote by phone, and the next night, the contestant with the lowest number of votes is booted off the show.

We're down to 7 contestants. There are 3 black women (the "Divas"), all of whom have stunning voices, great stage presence, and had to be the front runners in anyone's book: LaToya, Fantasia, and Jennifer. One black guy with a lovely voice and the sweetest personality you've ever seen: George.

Then there's the also-ran's: Jasmine (an Asian girl), John (a white boy), and Diana (a white girl). They're all very young, and they just feel immature and inexperienced when they try to sing, say, love songs. You can tell they don't know what they're singing about. Give them each a few years, bring them back, they could win. But right now, they're not in the same leage as the others.

I mention the contestants' races, by the way, because I think it's significant.

Well, last night, they announced the bottom three vote-getters... and to everyone's shock, they were LaToya, Fantasia and Jennifer.

An audible gasp from the audience. Stunned incomprehension from the judges. And, at our house, a disconsolate Sabrina, who had voted for all three (plus Jasmine) just the night before.

Why? I've read a few chat rooms today (not something I normally do, I want to make clear!) trying to make sense of it. And it's not a pretty story.

Race is clearly entering the picture. When one "chatter" insists the 3 Divas were the best singers, I'm seeing other "chatters" insisting that the first one must be black -- because why else would they support a trio of black singers? (Um... because they're the best singers? Just a concept.)

I'm seeing other chatters staunchly defending John and Diana -- not because they're the best singers, but because they're "wholesome." (Is that a code word for white? I'm not sure. Is it just that they're "middle America"? Is it that they're young and innocent?)

I'm seeing some interesting comments supporting LaToya -- but not Fantasia, specifically because Fantasia, who is 19 and unmarried, has a 2-year-old daughter. She's not a good role model, say the commenters, and the eventual "American Idol" must be a good role model.

This is not a specifically race-related comment, of course, since LaToya and Fantasia are both black. But it certainly speaks to a divide in values in America -- between those who would consider a child out-of-wedlock a big deal and those to whom it's irrelevant (or even a plus).

We can all jump in and say, "No, the American Idol is just a singer, not a role model." But we know that's not true. A role model is anyone you model yourself after -- and rock stars are at the top of the list these days as role model material.

The comments weren't pretty. But they were pretty revealing. (And, I must say, shockingly badly spelled!)

As I was trying to figure out how the voting went so screwy, so wrong last night, I came up with another factor that is at least tangentially race-related:

Last night was "Barry Manilow" night. Barry was a guest judge, they were all singing his songs.... You know, I can see how a good portion of the more musically-hip audience might not want to tune in for Mr. Manilow. (I'm far from musically-hip, and I didn't have a great desire to tune in!) And those who would tune in might tend to favor the more white-bread stylings of John, Diana, and Jasmine.

The race factor, I'm pleased to say, played no part in my kids' choices. They're sort of puzzled, in fact, as to why anyone would vote for someone based on the color of the skin -- It doesn't make any sense, Cory explained to me this morning. You're supposed to vote for the best singer, not for what they look like.

Right.

So we'll keep watching... and wondering if this was a Barry-Manilow-driven aberration. Or a nasty streak hidden inside American pop culture and raising its little head in numbers great enough to show up amongst the millions who vote for AI.

Hey, I think it's interesting. Thank you for allowing me this little American Idol diversion. We now return you to your regularly scheduled blogging.

HARRY POTTER: WHERE'S THE BRAIN?

Here's another little Harry Potter essay. Thanks to those of you who've been enjoying them (and letting me know!).... Hope you enjoy this one as well....

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"Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain."

Did you ever hear about the girl who bought a cactus plant that started to hum? It kept humming, louder and louder. And then it began to vibrate. It was shaking and jiggling so much that the girl took it outside, afraid for what might happen. Just in time, too -- the second she put it down, the cactus split in two, and hundreds of baby tarantulas poured out and started running all over the girl's yard -- and all over her!

Or have you ever been warned about going down the waterslides at water parks during the summer? Seems some mean kid has been sticking razor blades to the inside of the slides, so the kids who follow him get sliced as they go down.

Jaw-dropping stories, aren't they? Only thing is, they're not true. Tarantulas don't lay their eggs in cacti. No one's ever been cut by a razor blade going down a water slide. (How could anyone even stop sliding long enough to stick a razor blade on?)

Now, I wouldn't mind hearing these stories if only they'd come to me labeled as "tall tales," or some other make to let me know they were all made-up. But they didn't. Both of those stories -- and other urban legends like them -- claim to be true.

"Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain."

That's what Mr. Weasley says when he learns Ginny's been corresponding with Tom Riddle through Riddle's diary in Chamber of Secrets.

In her first year at Hogwarts, Ginny Weasley has found herself worried and confused, with no one to confide in. When she found a blank diary in her belongings, of course she began to write down her deepest fears and longings. Her feelings of being lost, of not fitting in. Her shame at her family's poverty compared to other kids at Hogwarts. The hopelessness of her feelings for Harry.

Imagine her surprise when the diary begins to write back! Ginny thinks she's found a friend. But in reality, the secret intelligence behind the diary is none other than Tom Riddle -- the Hogwarts student who would grow up to be Lord Voldemort. Not really someone Ginny should be trusting.

Instead of finding a friend, Ginny has found a deceiver, one who will lead her to open the Chamber of Secrets, to attack other students, to release the basilisk upon the school. She does things she would never dream of doing if she weren't under the influence of Voldemort. And all because she believed the words which magically appeared in her diary.

It's understandable why Mr. Weasley is so upset when he gives Ginny the advice about the diary. And it's pretty good advice, even for us Muggles.

Now, I don't have even one blank magical diary lying around my house. But I do have a lot of other books. Hundreds, in fact. And as far as I'm concerned, they are magical objects. A good book can magically transport you to another time, another place. Even a time or place that hasn't happened yet. Or one that could never happen.

And in the front of each book I own, I can see exactly where it keeps its brain. All I need to do is turn to the title page, and look right below the title. Flip open any of the Harry Potter books. Just a few pages, right below the title, you'll see the words "by J.K. Rowling."

That's the "brain" of the book. We know who the book came from, who created the world we're about to inhabit. A real live person thought it all up. If we want to do a little research, we can learn more about that real live person. Ms. Rowling, in this case. We can read interviews with her, understand why she created the world she created, get insights into how she works.... All because there's a brain behind the magical objects that are her books.

I have another sort of magical object in my house. It's my computer.

If I plug the right kind of plug into the right kind of outlet, it too can open up worlds for me. It can let me chat live with my college girlfriend in Atlanta, or my old writing buddy in Utah. It can let me talk to my friends in Moscow, where the telephones don't work reliably, the post office is even worse -- but I can hear from them every week through this magic.

And when I correspond with the people I know, I've got a pretty good idea where the "brain" is behind our interaction.

But then there's the other e-mail I get. The spam. The forwarded stuff where I don't recognize a single name on the heading. The passing-on of urban legends, like the ones mentioned above. The virus warnings that turn out to be hoaxes.

And what about the chat rooms? We've all heard the stories: The guy who logs on to a kids' chat room, pretending to be 11, when he's really 35. The girl who pretends to be a supermodel when she really looks like Dudley Dursley's twin sister.

How many of us have been zapped with real computer viruses? How do we usually get them? By blindly opening an e-mail or an attachment from someone we don't know, sent under a fictitious name, from a person who really doesn't exist.

Those sneaky virus-laden attachments are the modern-day equivalent of the Trojan Horse. You remember the story: The Greeks attacked the city of Troy for ten years. But Troy was so well-fortified, the Greeks couldn't break down the gates, and finally gave up. When they left Troy, they left behind a gigantic wooden horse. The Trojans didn't know where it came from, and thought it was a gift from the gods to celebrate their victory. So they brought it inside the city for a celebration.

But the Trojans got fooled. The Greeks hadn't really left. The Trojan Horse was hollow. It was filled with soldiers, who crept out in the middle of the night, opened the gates to let the rest of the Greek army in, and the Greeks overcame the city of Troy overnight.

The Trojans got a present. Just like Ginny. And in both cases, the person
receiving the unknown gift didn't know where it came from... where it kept its brain.

Even the websites that look perfect legitimate: Who wrote them? Where did they come from? I'm not talking about fan sites here, but about the ones that claim to state facts, to convey truth. Do they really? Or is it all made up? Usualy there's no way to know.

A friend of mine who's a researcher for the TV game show Jeopardy! tells me that on the show every individual fact on every clue they use is checked out and verified, using not one, but two verifiable sources to confirm the authenticity of the claims they make on the air. And they're not allowed to have both sources come from the Internet.

The virus warnings, the urban legends, the grandiose claims made in chat rooms... they show up on my screen day after day. But I don't know where they originated.

Time and again I find good reason to think back to Mr. Weasley's sage advice. Never trust an object that can think for itself (or speak for itself) if you can't see where it keeps its brain.

You know, we could keep going on that theme: Never trust a cook if you can't see where he keeps his food. Never trust someone to pay you what he owes you if you can't see where he keeps his money.

But for now, I'll stick to the computer. I'll trust Mr. Weasley (after all, I know where his brain came from!). I'll hit the "forward" key less often. And the "delete" key more often.

PLAYING HOOKY

I do some of my best "people" research eavesdropping. It's an occupational hazard for a writer.

So this Sunday, I'm picking up my kids from Sunday school, waiting for them to get shoes on, snag some extra snack, play one more game of Hangman on the chalkboard... and I start eavesdropping.

Several moms are playing "one-up" about their kids' schooling. Now, I don't know about the rest of the country, but that's pretty common here in L.A.

What was interesting about this particular game of "I'm better than you," however (aside from the fact that it was happening at a church!), was that the moms in question were bragging about the merits of home-schooling vs. sending their kids to an expensive private Christian school.

And all I could think of was all the non-Christian kids out there who will never meet these moms' kids.

In my son's class of 40 kids, there are, to the best of my knowledge, 4 Christian kids. By this I mean kids who go to church. (I'm using the kids' way of categorizing here: If you go to church, you're Christian. If you go to temple, you're Jewish. Otherwise you're nothing.)

In my daughter's class of 40 kids, there are, to the best of my knowledge, 2 Christian kids. And one of them is moving this summer.

Where are the kids in our school going to meet Christian kids? Where are they going to see families that are (hopefully) healthy, godly, different?

When I was growing up, it seemed like every family at school went to church or temple except us. Now, I'd bet there are whole classrooms of kids who never met anyone who goes to church.

I have some friends in Pasadena, Jim and Dawn, who are consciously sending their kids to one of the lowest-ranked schools in the city. They've formed a non-profit organization to support the school, to get parents and local businesses involved, to improve the school in every way. I am in awe of their devotion and purpose. The kids in that school can't say they've never seen a Christian family.

I'm not saying no one should send their kids to a Christian school. I have to say, the thought of a Christian college looks somewhat appealing, given the laissez-faire attitude of most "regular" colleges these days (though we're years away from that.)

And I'm not saying no one should ever home school their kids. I have friends who pulled their kids out of school after a murder occurred on the campus, because their kids were too freaked out to go back. That, I understand.

But I wonder if we have abandoned a generation of kids by over-protecting our own.

WORDS THAT KILL

I don't know how much press this got in the rest of the country, but it was front page news here in L.A.: A big scare in the porn industry.

Seems an "actor" went to Brazil and got himself infected with the HIV/AIDS virus, then came back to work in L.A. without realizing it. The story was heavily covered in the L.A. Times, including a chart and time line showing how many people were potentially infected.

You may not realize it, but the porn business is primarily based in the San Fernando Valley here in L.A. And it's a big business, with tentacles creeping into other areas. Some people in the mainstream industry, unable to find work due to factors like runaway production, end up moonlighting in the porn business.

I once saw a porn actress in Costco. How could I tell? Well, partly because of how she was dressed: skirt up to here, shirt open down to there, implants out to there, five inch heels, and more make-up than I would wear to a Halloween party.... But what cinched it was the pathetic sight of guys trailing her around the warehouse, cell phones in hand, calling their buddies to say they'd spotted a "celebrity" (whom they clearly recognized)... Sick.

Well, as a result of Mr. Zipper-Down-in-Brazil, the porn business has pretty much shut down for several weeks while everyone gets tested. This has caused much wailing and gnashing of teeth, as "starlets" moan about how are they supposed to pay their bills.

Many moralistic points could be made here. But here's what I found interesting, as a writer and a former linguist: The use of the word "work."

The L.A. Times, as well as Variety and the Hollywood Reporter, talked about the need to track down all the people Mr. Brazil had "worked" with -- only they didn't use quotes. Everyone he worked with needs to be tested for HIV/AIDS, as does everyone those people worked with -- several dozen people in all.

You know, I've held a lot of jobs in my day. I worked at a bank, I taught guitar, I did short-order cooking at a snack bar, I shelved books at a library, I counseled incoming freshman... and that's just in my college days. Lots more jobs since then...

And amazingly, I've never had to take an HIV/AIDS test after any of the "work" I did.

Let's give props to Variety -- waaaay deep in their article, after one of the many uses of the verb "work" they included, in parentheses: (=had sex with). Yes, it should have come earlier. But at least they said it.

Some people will probably die, in part because they allowed themselves to be suckered by the euphemism "work." Using this normal term allows them to believe that what they do is normal, that they are making a productive contribution to society.

They're wrong. You know that. I know that. And you know what? They know it, too. They know what they're doing is wrong, is degrading, is destructive to those who partake of it. And now they've been reminded that what they do can kill them. Not too many folks can say that about their "work."

For the next couple of weeks, thousands of people will wait for test results, wait to be tested again... and think about their brush with mortality. We can all pray that some of them -- many of them! -- will leave the porn business completely.

And at the very least, we should all remember that words can be dangerous things if they're not used to tell truth.

...He who tells lies will not escape. -Prov. 19:5

WE NEVER STEP IN THE SAME RIVER TWICE

I'm sitting by the phone today, waiting for an update from a first-grade mom who went into labor this morning. I'll be bringing her daughter Katie, one of Sabrina's best friends at school, home from Brownies. It's all very exciting....

But it's also sort of sad. Because Katie's family is moving in a couple of months.

I didn't have a good friend move till I was in fifth grade. And I was in absolute shock. I never thought my life could be so shaken by someone else's actions. My friend moved to a town maybe 50 miles away, but of course to a 10-year-old, it might as well be 1000. We talked on the phone the night after he moved. We didn't really know how to talk on the phone, so it was stilted and awkward. We never spoke again.

Sabrina actually has two good friends leaving her school this year -- Katie to move to Pennsylvania, and another changing schools. She misses them already, she tells me.

And I think of the saying, "You never step into the same river twice." Whether she realizes it or not, school will be different next year regardless of who stays or leaves. School is different every day. But somehow we're so focused on what stays the same that the differences slide by.

Sabrina doesn't like losing people. Her friends matter so deeply to her. She'll tell me she misses babysitters or friends I can't believe she even remembers. She talks about missing our grand cat Mr. Underfoot, when there's no way she really remembers him: I have the pictures to prove she was all of 2 (if that), when he died

When she was 4 1/2, Sabrina beloved nanny -- the person she loved most in the world outside of her family -- died of ovarian cancer, after living with us during her illness. She spent the rest of that summer wondering who else had died.

So for her, the loss of a friend strikes deep. And as a mom, there's just nothing I can do. I could try. I could tell her all about the new friends who will fill the two empty desks in the classroom, and how much fun they'll have. I can set her up with e-mail so she and Katie can e-chat about Barbies and horses and video games and all the important things of life. But ultimately, all those efforts are a lie. I know -- and she knows, even at the age of 7 -- that it won't be the same.

We all lose people. Here in Hollywood, it happens more than other places: People quit the industry. They feel like failures and drop off the face of the earth. Or they succeed... and never speak to their old buddies again. Or they just drift away.

And people move. The high cost of housing. The cruelness of the industry. Sick parents in other states. Lots of reasons. All of them leaving a little empty space in our Rolodexes.

We never step into the same river twice. Our history sweeps past us and is gone round the bend before we know it, and all the photo albums in the world won't bring it back. New people, new friends, sweep toward us on the same river. All we can do is decide which way we're going to face in the river -- ahead, behind... or focusing on those who are floating along right next to us, at least for the time being.

The river rushes by so swiftly. We can't keep up. That's why it's so good to know that, in heaven, we will be beyond time. And with no passage of time to worry about, who cares how far away someone is? There'll always be time to catch up.

The river keeps rushing by. I know Sabrina will be in middle school before I can breathe -- and I know she will still, at times, say, "I miss Katie" with her little pout. And, this side of heaven, all I can do is say, "I know, honey, I miss her too."

HARRY POTTER: I'D LIKE MY WORDS WITH MUSTARD, PLEASE

So many of you have contacted me so kindly to say you like the Harry Potter stuff I posted a few days ago, that I thought I'd post another of my little never-to-be-published essays. Hope you enjoy it!

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At the end of Chamber of Secrets, Harry and Ron are in big, big trouble.

They're sitting in Professor Dumbledore's office. Professor McGonagall has just walked out, telling Dumbledore she'll leave him to "deal with" Harry and Ron. Harry and Ron are panic-stricken -- are they about to be punished? That's sure the way it sounds.

"I seem to remember telling you both that I would have to expel you if you broke any more school rules," said Dumbledore.

Dumbledore's right. Harry and Ron have had the threat of expulsion hanging over their heads for the entire school year.

Remember, this is the year they arrived at Hogwarts by flying car, rather than taking the Hogwarts Express. And boy, have they broken rules. They violated the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts laws by actually flying the car Mr. Weasley bewitched. They performed magic outside of Hogwarts, violating the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery -- and they did it after Harry received a warning that performing spells outside school would lead to expulsion. They were seen mid-air by Muggles. They damaged the Whomping Willow. Not a good start to the year.

All year long, they've known the consdquences for one more misstep: expulsion from Hogwarts. Harry would have to live with the Dursleys forever. What could be more horrible?

They were warned. And now they've broken more rules. They've stolen supplies from Professor Snape's office (okay, Hermione actually did that, but Harry and Ron were accomplices). They've prepared -- and used! -- the Polyjuice Potion, a potion so restricted they're not even allowed to read about it without a professor around. They've snuck out of the dormitories at night. They've gone into the Forbidden Forest. They've held a professor hostage -- that's got to be against a rule somewhere!

Maybe sometime we'll talk about how they could have avoided breaking so many rules... by asking for help... by trusting in Dumbledore. But that's for another time. Right now let's just leave at this: They have absolutely broken the rules. There are consequences for their behavior.

Expulsion. That's the consequence for what they've done. It's time for Harry and Ron to reap what they've sown. Let's what while Dumbledore hands down the punishment. But Dumbledore doesn't say what we -- or Harry and Ron -- expect:

"I seem to remember telling you both that I would have to expel you if you broke any more school rules... Which only goes to show that the best of us must sometimes eat our words."

Excuse me? Was that Dumbledore eating his words? Admitting he made a mistake?

Personally, I hate admitting I made a mistake. I do all sorts of wiggling to find a way to justify the wrong thing I did earlier. If only I'd known some missing fact, I'd never have said what I did -- so clearly I wasn't wrong when I said it... right?

There are other ways to get out of admitting a mistake. I have a friend who, when he gets caught, places the wrong done in a grand context, making his own wrongdoing seem small in comparison. Yes, maybe he did tell a lie, hurt people, not do what he promised. But it was all on behalf of helping a homeless woman find her long-lost father. What he did was in the service of humanity! -- so how petty can I be to actually point out that he did something wrong!

Or you can do what Gilderoy Lockhart does every time he makes a mistake: He comes up with a new excuse. His wand was overexcited. Removing bones instead of mending them -- well, that can happen to anyone.

How much more graceful it is to do what Dumbledore did. He simply said he was wrong. He ate his words, and moved on. No false pride, no protecting his image.

Dumbledore didn't have to admit he was wrong, you know. He could have found a loophole in the rules -- or created one: Students who break the rules will be expelled -- but exceptions will be made if the students in question have just saved the school from a ferocious monster. Something like that.

It's especially easy for grown-ups to find those kinds of loopholes around kids. After all, we're the ones who make the rules, right? We're the ones in the position of authority. We don't have to admit when we're wrong, because our authority shields us from admitting all mistakes.

So what if I was wrong when I accused a child of shoplifting, of breaking Grandma's Waterford vase, of stealing money from my wallet? I'm the adult. The child is still going to be in the wrong, no matter how false the accusation.

Well, Dumbledore has a lot more authority than I do. He's the most highly-respected wizard in the wizarding world. He's the Headmaster of Hogwarts. He's the only wizard that Voldemort truly fears. And with all that authority, he would never have to admit he was wrong about anything.

So, as a grown-up, what Dumbledore did is a lesson for me. He had all the power in his world. But he didn't use it to protect his image. He ate his words. And it makes me realize that I, as a figure of authority in my children's life, need to eat my words once in a while. And that's okay.

Just eat my words, and move on. Doesn't Dumbledore make it seem so simple?

COMING SOON: "A KID'S GUIDE TO MAKING MOVIES"

A few of you have asked how my son Cory's movie is going. Slow but steady, I'd have to say. During spring break, he got together with the other two producers of the movie to have a production meeting. (Notice how I avoided putting quotes around "producers" and "production meeting.")

Now, most people would have called it a playdate, but here in L.A., 9-year-olds know what a production meeting is. (I think in reality it was about 1/3 meeting, 2/3 video games, but hey....)

They've discussed locations, they've made a crew list, and they have the title page for the script. But they haven't gotten much further. And I realized, it's because they don't know what to do next.

So, brilliant mom that I am, I stepped in to solve the problem. I logged straight on to Amazon to find the definitive kid's book about filmmaking. I tried every possible permutation of "film," "movie," "video," "production," you name it.

Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zero. Zilch.

Went to the local library web catalogs. Again, nothing.

And a brainstorm hit. If no book exists, and there's at least a readership of 3, why not write one?!

So be it hereby announced that I am going to fill that deep need on the shelves of Borders' children's section by writing "A Kid's Guide to Making Movies."

I'm working on the Table of Contents now. And you can help. Anything you think should be included in a book like this (topic ideas, cool camera tricks, anything at all), please e-mail me and put in your two cents.

My goal is to finish it before Cory et al. finish prepping their movie. (I think I'll make the deadline!) I'll keep you posted.

"AMERICAN CHRISTIANS DON'T THREATEN JEWS"

Someone passed on to me a fascinating article from the opinion section of the April 5th Wall Street Journal, written by a noted rabbi. It takes to task critics of THE PASSION OF THE CHRIST who went looking for anti-Semitism, as the article puts it, in all the wrong places. Really interesting. You'll find it here.

ALL I REALLY NEED TO KNOW....

As I posted a couple of weeks ago, I was blown away by the online trailer for HARRY POTTER AND THE PRISONER OF AZKABAN. I was also blown away, by the way, by the trailer for SPIDERMAN 2 -- so beautifully cut, lyrical and powerful. But it didn't stay with me the way Harry's did.

For several days, I kept seeing that final image of Harry shouting "Expecto Patronum!" and holding up his wand. And finally I realized I only knew one way to get that image out of my mind: I had to read the book again and put it in context.

And so I sat down and read Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. And when I finished it, somehow I found I had to sit down and read Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire and then I found myself reading Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.

And they were just what I needed.

Odd books to choose during Lent, I realize. Especially during Holy Week. (I do firmly believe J.K. Rowling is telling a very Christian story and is in fact a believer, but that's a subject for a different blog.)

As Lee and I face some potentially scary stuff ahead of us, the story of a boy -- almost a young man now -- who managed to be brave beyond all hope of bravery was encouraging. Even, dare I say it, inspiring. I found myself looking forward with more hope and courage -- and that, I believe, is a gift from God.

A couple of years ago, I put together a terrific book proposal for a book of essays entitled "All I Really Need to Know I Learned from Harry Potter." I can objectively say it was terrific because it got a fab response from our book agent, and from a whole series of publishers.

It never got published, however, because Scholastic Books is (understandably!) very proactive about what they consider to be copyright violations where Harry is concerned, and the various publishers (and their attorneys, some of whom I met with) were just too nervous about what would have been one of the first non-Scholastic "Harry" books. (But boy, do I have a great file of laudatory rejection letters!)

Sitting down and re-reading this last week or two reminded me of that project. I thought I'd dig it out and post some of it here. So here comes the first one. If you like it, let me know. I'll post more!

HARRY POTTER: CHOICES

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be Julie Andrews. Okay -- it was corny then, too. But I didn't care. I would watch The Sound of Music every year on TV, and dream of being just like her.

Only one problem. I couldn't sing. Certainly not like that. I wasn't tall and willowy, I wasn't a good actress... okay, so there was more than one problem.

If I could have chosen my own talents, I would have just pulled out a video of The Sound of Music and made a list. "There," I would have pointed, "that's what I want to be like."

But we don't get to choose our talents. If Harry Potter could have chosen his, it's doubtful that he would have chosen to be a Parselmouth, a wizard who can talk to snakes.

In fact, at the end of Chamber of Secrets, Harry's feeling very nervous about the very abilities that have just saved his life.

Now, on the face of it, Harry has every reason in the world to feel triumphant. Look at what he's accomplished! He found the hidden Chamber of Secrets. He summoned up the courage to enter the Chamber alone, after being separated from Ron by the collapse of the underground tunnel.

Once in the Chamber of Secrets, Harry confronted the living memory that is Tom Riddle -- only to learn that Tom is actually his arch-enemy Lord Voldemort. And Harry was victorious, destroying this manifestation of Voldemort completely.

Not only that, but Harry also killed the serpent of Slytherin, the basilisk which has afflicted Hogwarts for 50 years, and which has been petrifying students all over the school, including Hermione. He also saved Ginny Weasley from certain death and expulsion from Hogwarts.

Not bad for one day. Hey, if it was me, I'd be waiting for the parade to start.

But Harry's nervous. Something's eating at him.

Is he the heir of Slytherin? Could he possibly be destined to follow in the path of the most disgusting person he can imagine? Could he be fated to be even worse than Draco Malfoy?

Even the Sorting Hat seemed to agree. After all, it did see Slytherin's power in Harry. It wanted to put him in Slytherin.

But it didn't.

It put him in Gryffindor, as Dumbledore points out. Why? Only because Harry asked it not to put him in Slytherin.

With the Sorting Hat tumbled down over his eyes, Harry made a choice. Easily the biggest choice of his life to that point. And in doing som, he chose who he wanted to be.

"It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities." That's what Dumbledore tells Harry about his choice of Gryffindor over Slytherin.

My choices matter more than my abilities.

Everyday I make dozens of choices, and most of them seem to have no real consequences at the time. Do I brush my teeth for two full minutes or hardly at all? (I won't see the dentist for six months, so who's to know?) Freeze out that guy who's trying to cut in the lane in front of me, or ease up and let him in? (After all, what are the odds that he's the one road-rage loony on the road with a gun?) Salad, or cheeseburger and fries? Dessert....no dessert.

My kids make just about as many choices. Brush their teeth 200 times, or wet the brush to make mom think they actually brushed. Do the homework first thing after school, or hit the GameBoy and worry about homework later? Who toplay with. Who to sit with at lunch. Is it cool for a boy to have lunch with a girl? Who's okay to talk to... this week.

Little choices every day. Big choices every once in a while. And as my kids grow up, their choices will get bigtger. Where to go to college. What to be when they grow up. Who to marry.

My abilities -- my God-given talents, the things I learned to do as a kid and
practiced and didn't forget how to do -- those just give an outline of what I can do. They don't tell who I am.

Now maybe you can do a handspring. Or you can play the trumpet. You can design a website. Or you never need a calculator because you can do math in your head. Or you have a special way of knowing when a friend is hurting inside even if they don't say anything.

But that's not who you are. Who you are comes out of what you choose to do with those abilities.

If that jerk tries to cut me off in traffic, and I cut him off instead, I am choosing to become more of a jerk myself. And each time I do it, it gets easier to do.

If your friend calls up to yammer on and on about her problems, and you pretend you have a call waiting just to get rid of her, you are choosing to be uncaring. But if you listen and try to help, even if you don't feel like it, then you're choosing to be her friend... and your true self, your inner "you," becomes more of a real friend, too. And each time you do it, it'll get easier to do.

It's as if we were pulled between two giant magnets. You can call one magnet "good" and one "evil," if you want. Call one magnet God and the other, the devil. Call one magnet Gryffindor and one Slytherin, if you will.

Every step you take toward the "good" magnet increases its pull over you. Every step you take in that direction makes it easier to take more steps in that direction , and harder to go in the opposite direction. Every choice you make to try to be good -- to be loving, to be honest, to be brave, to be faithful -- makes it easier to actually be that way.

It's like the song "Whistle a Happy Tune" from the old musical The King and I.

Make believe you're brave,
And the trick will take you far:
You may be as brave
As you make believe you are.

You practice to be brave, and you become brave. You choose who to be, and that definds who you are. You can choose to follow the path that's been mapped out for you by other people and their expectations. Or you can choose another path.

All Harry's abilities pointed him to Slytherin. But he chose -- so desperately -- to be in Gryffindor. In doing so, he chose boldness over slyness. Bravery over deceit. Pretty good choices, if you ask me.

It'd be cool to have a Sorting Hat in real life, wouldn't it? Never have to make a really big choice again. Where should I go to college? Just slap on the Sorting Hat, it has lots of experience with that kind of question. Which guy or girl should I be with? Go to the Sorting Hat for the answer.

But it didn't work that way for Harry. And it makes me wonder. Does every kid who gets Sorted have the same experience as Harry? Do they secretaly -- inside the Hat, where no one can see their inner thoughts -- choose the House they want? "Please, please it has to be Ravenclaw--" "I have to be in "Slytherin, I'm too good for any other house--"... And then the Sorting Hat just makes their choice public? I wonder.

Which House to be in was the biggest decision Harry had had before him in his whole life up to then. He expected the Sorting Hat to make it. But the Hat didn't make the choice. Harry did.

We get to choose, too. Every day in zillions of tiny ways, we choose who we truly are. And once in a while in big ways.

Go choose who you want to be. And choose boldly.

GOOD NIGHT, SWEET PRINCE

One year ago today, David Schall died.

David was an actor who, some 15+ years ago, felt the call of God to go to Hollywood -- not to become rich and famous, but to unify the Christian community there.

We were here 15 years ago, young, poor and unknown. And let me tell you, there was no visible body of Christ in Hollywood. At all. We knew (or knew of) maybe a few dozen Christians in town, most aspiring to their jobs, not working. The Christian professionals actually working you could count on your fingers, with no need to take off your socks.

There were a few ministries to the few Christians in the industry, but almost all of them were outsiders to Hollywood. And none of the ministries really had anything to do with one another.

David Schall changed all that.

He found a welcome home at Hollywood Presbyterian Church, where then-senior pastor Lloyd Ogilvie listened to David's vision and opened the doors. Not many pastors would have done so. Not many would even have heard David out.

With a handful of other Christian actors, he founded the Actors Co-op, the first Equity waiver Christian theatre company in the U.S. Lee and I have attended virtually every performance the Co-op has given, and are amazed at the quality of work they turn out -- and they have the awards to show for it.

Things really started rolling, however, when David founded Inter-Mission, which he envisioned as an "umbrella" ministry which would link together all the ministries, indeed, all the Christians in Hollywood.

And it worked. People came to events. They met each other. More people came. And more people. Leaders of the different ministries began to talk to each other.

I remember the first few Inter-Mission meetings. I would look around the place and marvel that virtually everyone I knew in Hollywood was in one room. Now, I look around the room and marvel that if I'm lucky, I know maybe 10% of the room. Inter-Mission's mailing list hovers around 3000 right now, and my guess is that if we all sat down and opened up our Rolodexes, we'd easily reel off over 10,000 Christians in Hollywood.

At one of David's memorial services, someone remarked that there are thousands of people who know each other because of David. And who would not have known one another without him. Thousands.

Someone once asked David, "Now that we've got all these people in a room together, what are we going to do with them?" And he responded, "Isn't that the point, to get them all in the same room together?"

Yes, David. You were right. That was the point.

David was also instrumental in the founding of Act One, the love of my ministry life, and the Hollywood Prayer Network, which all of you should sign up with, whether you're in the industry or not.

A year ago today, Lee and I were on our way to the opening night of "Uncle Vanya" at the Actors Co-op. As we walked up to the box office to pick up our tickets, there seemed to be more people milling about than usual.

A Co-op member pulled me out of the ticket line. "David had a heart attack," she said. I hadn't even begun to process this when she added, "He didn't make it."

Now, David was a friend of ours, but not a close friend. I had the honor of serving on the Board of Governors of Inter-Mission with him for several years. Every few weeks I'd pick up the phone and hear, "Hi, Jan, it's David Schaaaaaaaaal," and he would be calling to ask me what I thought of some new idea or of how a particular event had gone. We had breakfast together once or twice a year. I went to a few parties at his house, and he came to some at mine. (And I spent a fair amount of time listening to some of his co-workers complain about how hard he could be to work with.)

So I was astonished to realize how much his death meant in my own personal world. Who knew that the linch pin of the Christian body in Hollywood had just been pulled?

A year later, so much is different. Inter-Mission remains without a leader, with no formal search committee even convened to fill David's post. It's moving forward after a fashion, but with little vision and less energy. David's absence looms large over every meeting.

And we used to try to go to every opening night at the Actors Co-op if we could. But no more. I realized that, for me, an essential element of attending a Co-op premiere was heading to the reception afterwards, knowing there would be balloons, knowing there would be jumbo shrimp.... and waiting for David to come up to me and ask, "What did you think?", then anxiously point out every single member of the press who was there.

I haven't been able to go to a premiere since he died.

David's legacy, of course, doesn't reside in a few events or premieres. It lies in the thousands and thousands of people who know each other now, who wouldn't have known each other if David Schall hadn't insisted on getting all those people together in one room.

I never got to see David's performance in "Uncle Vanya." I guess I'll have to wait till heaven to see him in it.... or perhaps in one of Chekhov's newer plays.

In the meantime, David, know that, a year later, you are still missed. Know that Hollywood is immeasurably different because of you. And thank you for your vision and your hard work. Thank you.

Good night, sweet prince / And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

ONE MORE PRAYER

Last Sunday, our pastor, Mark Brewer at Bel Air Presbyterian Church, gave an analogy about prayer that has really stuck with Lee and me all week.

He told about being up in Scotland and watching the fishermen getting ready to go out fishing. However, all their preparations seemed to make no sense because their fishing boats were easily 200 yards above the tide line, mired in mud and rocks, lurching to one side on their keels.

What a stupid place to put your boat -- 200 yards away from the water! But the fishermen continued their preparations, then stood by their boats and waited.

And eventually, a tiny wave came up and lapped the stern of the keel. Not enough to do anything. Just a tiny wash of water.

And another tiny wave came. And another one. And after a while, the boat, where it lay on its side on the mud and rocks, was surrounded by water. But still it was keeled over and unuseable. And still the fishermen just waited.

The little tiny waves continued, persistent, but getting no larger than the first wave had been. Until finally, one wave -- no better, no bigger than any others -- swept up... and the boat arighted itself.

The waves are our prayers. We pray and we don't see an answer. We pray again and still no answer. We keep on praying... or we change our prayers... or we despair and give up and cross the prayer off our list.

And we forget that Jesus told his disciples "that they ought always to pray and not give up." (Luke 18:1)

One more prayer. Maybe that's all it would take to put us afloat again.

Lee and I have found that we often face huge challenges, some of them quite horrible, during Holy Week. We see it in the lives of our friends as well. This week, after all, is the week the devil learned he had lost. And I think he's a bit of a sore loser.

This year is no different. We find ourselves facing stuff we'd just as soon avoid, thank you very much. And all we can do is pray. One more prayer. And one more after that. All in trust that God will use the aggregate of those prayers to set things right.

As we go into the holiest days of the year, everyone out there, just pray. Whatever you're facing. One more prayer. One more after that. Pray and don't give up.

IT DON'T COME EASY

Getting caught up on my magazines, I just read the April 5th Newsweek and found myself thinking about the "My Turn" column. In it, a woman talks about the route she took to becoming an engineer. While she focuses primarily on gender issues in her article, I found myself more interested in some offhand comments she makes:

When I was growing up I was told, as many students are, to do what I am best at. But I didn't know what that was. Most people think that when you are good at something, it comes easily to you. But this is what I discovered: just because a subject is difficult to learn, it does not mean you are not good at it.

Screenwriting is hard to learn. Filmmaking is hard to learn. But we don't want to believe that. We want to believe that if you have "talent," it will all come easily.

But owning a copy of Final Draft does not make you a screenwriter. Owning a digital video camera doesn't make you a filmmaker.

To quote Preston Sturges: A man in possession of many bolts of woolen cloth, quantities of lining and interlining, buttons, thread, needles and padding is not, of necessity, a tailor. A man in possession of many characters, many situations, many startling and dramatic events, and many gags is not, of necessity, a storyteller."

Lee and I spent this morning working with a couple of our students from Act Two (the invitation-only "continuation" program of Act One). They've been working for months on scripts that, frankly, were in pretty good shape after the first draft.

Many fledgling "screenwriters" would have been happy with those first drafts, would have felt the burning need to get them "out there." But not these students.

They've been working very, very hard. We can tell when they describe for us the many ideas they tried that didn't work. In between the drafts we read, they've written many, many other partial drafts that we've never seen.

They've got the right idea: It doesn't come easily. It takes an enormous amount of work to make it look easy.

When you watch a lame sitcom or movie and say to yourself, "I could do that," you have to realize: It's not bad because the people who wrote it are stupid or without craft. It's bad because it's so hard to do that the very best people in the world can't always get it right.

But like the woman in Newsweek said: Just because it's hard to learn, it doesn't mean you're not good at it.

Here's a secret, she says. Math and science don't come easily to most people. No one was ever born knowing calculus.

No one was born knowing how to create dramatic structure, either. Many people, finding that it doesn't come easily, may be tempted to give up. I hope the ones who give up won't be the ones who do have the talent to make the hard work worthwhile.

I have a lot of hope for the students we met with today. Screenwriting has been hard for them to learn. But they're good at it. And putting in the work to get better. And that's good news for the future of the Christian community in Hollywood.

THE IMAGINATION OF LEGOLAND

We played hooky for a day this week (or we "skived off," as Harry Potter would say), and went to Legoland. Lee had family visiting San Diego for a few days from Idaho, including cousins, etc. our kids had never met. So off we went!

I really love Legoland. It is unlike any other theme park I've ever been to. It is clean. It is uncrowded. The food is really good. And it approaches the world of imagination in a different way than any other theme park.

Now, I grew up 10 miles from Disneyland. When I was in high school, a summer job at Disneyland was the cool job to get. A girl one year ahead of me was the understudy for Alice in Wonderland in the parade, and boy, did she have status!

The rest of us treated Disneyland as our own private theme park. Those were the days of the "E ticket" -- you bought admission to the park separately from ride tickets. So almost every weekend during the summer, a bunch of us would head to Disneyland, pay the $5 or $6 for park admission, and just hang out.

Back then, the park was clean. It was (relatively) uncrowded. It was safe -- Our parents never worried about us, even if we were out past the fireworks, and no one would imagine that anyone could get killed there, as has happened several times in the last few years. And you had the feeling that all the "cast members" (=employees) felt it a privilege to work there.

Not any more. We haven't even been to Disneyland in 3 years -- our kids prefer California Adventure, the new, not-very-successful "sister" park right next door. They hate the lines at Disneyland. And last time we were there, they pointed out all the little tiny ways the park is falling apart, not being maintained, running out of juice.

So off we go to Legoland. Many of the rides are pretty lame, actually. And they certainly don't have anything to rival the shows and parades of Disneyland -- once we watched a Lego "show" that pathetically consisted of performers dressed in primary colors singing about the glories of red, blue, yellow and green.

But it's a place of imagination very different from Disneyland's. At Disneyland, you're invited in to see what the "Imagineers" have done with their imaginations.

At Legoland, you're prodded to open up your own imagination. Everywhere, there are little shops, stands, tables with buckets of Legos, inviting you to just sit down and build something. They have whole workshops devoted to building robots, or building and racing Lego cars.

All around, you see what other imaginations have built: The Statue of Liberty. The Taj Mahal. A mariachi band. A giant Lego plumber carrying a new Lego toilet toward one of the restrooms. The Brooklyn Bridge. The Hollywood Bowl. A life-size brachiosaurus. Elephants, giraffes, flamingos. An enormous head of Albert Einstein. A working port with real water and boats that sail, trains that roll, cranes that lift and move. All of it built out of Legos.

I'll always love Disneyland, even in its decline. I have too many memories bound up there. (Ice cream on Main Street. Necking in the Monsanto ride. Trying to figure out the effects in the Haunted Mansion. Wishing I was old enough to drive the cars in Autopia. The first time I went on "It's a Small World," before we all knew how hokey it was. The time my best friend almost got thrown out of the park for rocking the cars on the Skyway.)

But there's something about Disneyland that says, "Sit and watch." And something about Legoland that says, "Come and participate."

All I know is, when my kids take their allowance to Disneyland, they come home with something stupid, like a glow-in-the-dark necklace that fades in 24 hours, or a giant Mickey Mouse glove to be worn as a hat.

And when they go to Legoland, they come home with boxes of Legos. And the next day, they don't even ask for computer time or video games or TV. They sit down and start building -- click click click click click click click.

And that feels like worth a day's hooky to me.