This is my best friend, who’s headed across Africa at the end of the summer. And that’s a Valmet automatic. I’m intrigued and a little jealous, which surprises me since I’ve taken a mostly pro-gun-control position for the past 15 years. So has she, so far as I know. But she decided that learning to shoot would bring her peace of mind:

One day after I received a booster Polio shot (admittedly something that I have only a very small risk of acquiring in Africa) it occured to me...perhaps I should get a gun immunization....a little taste of gun safety and use.....to cover me in the event that I might have some contact with them or someone carrying one of them.

She’s started a blog about preparation for her trip (and possibly the journey itself, depending on connectivity. It’s not like the Sahara is well wired.) As usual, her writing is vernacular and interesting, covering gun safety, the emotional factors of a trip like this, and the problems of being an American who wishes to cross a country with closed borders.

When she told me about it I absolutely had to see the pictures. My interest is almost purely literary, in a slanted fashion. My job is to sit quietly and think about stuff and then sit quietly some more and write down what I thought about. This is not very exciting. One of the Rock Bottom Remainders said something markedly similar in an article I read years ago: the writer's job is to sit alone in a little room and type. You type all day, going tickety tickety tickety. Little, tiny tickety sounds. After years of that, the urge to strap on a Fender bass, plug in, and make Big Sounds is overwhelming.

I’ve been calling myself a writer for 22 years now, having written and read pretty much every day since I was 8. The overwhelming quiet bothered me less when I was younger; I used to like it very much, actually. But I get antsier as I get older. These days I am less likely to shy away from my intensities, and as a result my own dial goes up to 11 more and more often. The idea of doing something loud and containedly dangerous makes more sense to me than it did before. My dad and I went to the shooting range on occasion when I was a kid, and I enjoyed it. I doubt I’ll go shooting again, if for no other reason than that the opportunity rarely arises.

But I’ll still think about it. Tickety tappety tap.