This journal documents the author's experiences as a television writer. To read the story from its inception, go to the beginning.

September 12, 2001

Returned to the earth
A few months before my thirteenth birthday my grandfather died. As my stepfather had passed on just a few weeks earlier, the shroud of depression I was living under turned into a deep, thick fog. Repression has mercifully blotted out from my memory most of the year that followed. But unfortunately not all.

My grandfather was an extremely devout Jew. Although the degree of his faith would often be labeled "orthodox," his devotion extended far beyond attending services two or more times a day. He was a synagogue director by vocation, responsible for running the day-to-day functions of the house of worship that employed him. When he initially came to Brooklyn, New York, he and my grandmother founded a Jewish center that stands to this day. An active supporter of the state of Israel, he worked towards its founding and raised money for its continued livelihood. And before he died, he was honored with a citation in Who's Who in World Jewry.

Shortly after my grandfather's death, my mother sat me down. She wanted me to know that I did not have to go through with the ceremony that in the Jewish tradition declares to the world that I had become a man. She wanted me to know that, considering the specter of death all around us, I didn't have to be Bar Mitzvahed on my upcoming birthday. I, however, insisted that we go ahead and have the ceremony as planned. It was very important to my grandfather that Jewish laws and traditions be upheld. Besides, that is what you do during tragedy. You keep going. You try to regain the routine your life had before everything went to Hell.

I cried throughout my entire Bar Mitzvah. Reading the Torah or just sitting while the rabbi officiated the service, there was no difference: a steady flow of tears and sobs continuously erupted while my friends, my family, and the entire congregation looked on.

I am numb from the last two days. The death and devastation a few miles from my apartment has finally pierced my armor. No longer able to take the constant flow of horror coming over the airwaves, I turn off my television.

Just before I hit the remote, CNN announces that New York City has ordered 6,000 body bags in preparation for reclaiming the bodies of those killed in the collapse of the Twin Towers. I am 12 years-old again. Plunged into the fog. I wish I could cry, but unfortunately I have grown into a man who has lost this ability. So I do what one does during tragedy. I keep going. I try to regain the routine my life had before everything went to Hell. I write. That is all I know to do.

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� 2001 - 2002 tv writer. All rights reserved.