Smart and Stupid:

The Perfect Blend 

          Anyone who has totaled a car knows that good judgment comes from experience, and experience comes from bad judgment. If only it weren’t so!
          In the Berenstain Bears books, the father bear tries teaching his children the right way to do things—to save them from needless injury—but he primarily educates through counterexample. Everything he does results in bandages and broken bones.
          I am that dad from the Berenstain Bears. Perhaps you are, too!
          If all fathers and sons knew my stories and learned from them, the Band-Aid companies of the world would go bankrupt. Emergency Rooms would cut their staffing by half.
          The protagonists in my novels are people like me: strong and weak, smart and stupid in equal measure. Are you interested?
          Could you prefer the heroines and heroes in my fantasy novels to the potent lures of our electronic world? My main characters (MCs) are people like me—and maybe like you, too. They begin as intense teenagers, full of longing and curiosity, but are trapped in their high-stakes dystopian Stone Age tribes. They lack the experience needed for good judgment, but they forge ahead anyway. They suffer, learn, and grow. They meet the loves of their lives, overcome severe hardships, become parents themselves, and ultimately lead nations on quests.
          While exploring a world of wonder on a cosmic stage, they wrestle with the greatest questions. How should they live? What’s worth dying for? What should their marriages be like? To whom do they owe allegiance? How should they train their children? Is there a God over all things, a Giver of Purpose, someone whose grand designs exceed their understanding?
          Dear Reader, I’m seeking you! Are you a brilliant teenager, prone to accident but searching for adventure to change your life? Come and find delight in my books.
          Are you a parent, forever young but pushed to the cliff of insanity by no-win situations? Can you gather your kids’ smartphones, stuff them in a box, and read aloud with them after dinner? Might you find fodder there for open discussion with the next generation?
          I bury questions throughout my stories—treasures parents dream about sharing with their children—using all my favorite themes: medicine, marriage, parenting, discovery, coming-of-age, running, nature, and faith. Have you the interest and space to dig up the hidden golden nuggets as a family and toss them around? I’m trying earnestly to create iconic characters that will endure, but only readers can decide if an author succeeds. My goal is this: uplifting works that appeal to extended families—literature worth rereading over generations.
          Could you share this post with one carefully selected friend—someone who would grasp my purpose? Authors these days must construct their own markets—find their own readers—before they can present the treasure within their hearts to the world. Thank you for your consideration.

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          As he dropped me off for my first day in college, my father gave me one piece of advice: “Don’t do stupid things.”
          Why would I do stupid things? Was I not valedictorian of my high school, a dedicated student on a full-ride academic scholarship? I was an athlete. Was I inclined toward alcohol or substances of abuse? Never. As for character, I was a committed Christian. I read my Bible daily, memorized Scripture, and sought to lead a moral life. What was my father worried about? “Don’t do stupid things!” he said. Concise, Dad, but woefully short on detail.
          Three weeks into college, I had completely forgotten my father’s warning. My first chemistry exam was scheduled for 8:30 A.M., and I was fully prepared. I had nothing left to do except consume my high-protein power breakfast and run to class.
          I ate my morning meal, finishing with five minutes to spare. Plenty of time if I ran. I headed for the cafeteria exit. Beyond the inner doors stretched five wide stone steps, followed by the outer doors.
          Four minutes left. No problem. My preparation for the first exam had been perfect! I knew everything.
          I accelerated through the inner doors to the top step, where I planted my jumping leg and leapt, intent on taking the entire stairway in a single bound. I eyed my landing site but missed one key detail. Beyond the stairs, the ceiling dropped sharply. The transition between the two levels consisted of a solid vertical wall.
          I struck that ceiling wall with my forehead, spun backward, and landed on my back at the bottom of the stairs. A medical team arrived with a stretcher and carted me off.
          My future bride, Lori, entered the cafeteria just as I was leaving. She recalls her exact thoughts that day: “Oh! That’s that guy I just met!” She had spoken with me for an hour only two weeks earlier and fifty yards away from the steps.
          At the medical facility, the college physician sutured my forehead together. Appearing beside him, as if from the ether, was Dr. Grimnes, a favorite biology professor and bowling ball of energy, come to check on me. She gave her opinion on how many hours I ought to lie there unmoving.
          I argued with both doctors that all I had was a concussion. Could I please take my exam? They relented. I took the exam and achieved the high score.
          I never told my parents about either the head injury or the exam results. In those days, concussions were as common for me as sunshine, and A’s were the air I breathed. Phone calls to parents, by contrast, were rare and expensive.
          Twin brothers attended Alma College in 1987, Smart and Stupid, barely aware of each other’s existence. They shook hands that day for the first time, then departed. Neither had any clue how often they would meet in days to come.

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