Left, right. Left, right. I had a method. A pace. Keep my mind on the simple execution of one foot in front of the other, my boot print within the boot print of the guy ahead. But the elevation gain was steep, my pack increasingly burdensome, and my pubescent pudge still stubbornly, mockingly clinged to my 15 year old frame. We were ascending to the top of Mount Baldy, standing at 12,441 feet as the highest peak in the Cimarron Range, a subrange of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains of New Mexico. It was our sixth day of the trek – a right of passage within the boundless lands of Philmont Scout Ranch, a teenage boy’s mecca of high adventure. We had already faced down smaller challenges of hailstorms, twisted ankles, and foreboding bear run-ins, but I was now facing two more formidable foes I never expected to encounter along the trail.

A pair of deeply held questions turned into resounding taunts with each stumble in the dirt, each day’s labored breath: I didn’t have what it takes and I’d never be or do anything deserving of my father’s pride.

A boy’s journey into manhood and his inevitable confrontation with the ghosts of his sonship are nothing unique to the altar of rock and pine, the sanctuary of sage and snow. For centuries boys have gone into the wilderness and emerged as men, standing tall as they returned to their community, tested to their limits and found able. I grew up in this sanctuary, but had somehow not yet made that leap.

My relationship with my dad had always been… hesitant. Restricted. There was simply never much on which we could connect. I was a mama’s boy. Moderate. A “bottler” of emotions. A peacemaker. I was called “sweet” more times than any boy wishes to receive in their formative days. My father on the other hand was smart, type-A, always right. It was his way or the highway and I was all too happy to allow him the steering wheel for the quiet of the backseat. He simply could not understand me, and I was nothing if not intimidated by him. But all of this disconnect gave way at the call of the wild. We both had that deeply rooted within. And I clung to it. I threw myself into scouting, camping every weekend, learning knots, earning badges. My distant father became a dad under a canopy of stars. He told yarns at the campfire, knew his way around a dutch oven recipe, stood confidently amongst the other men at morning coffee. I wanted nothing more than to make that father proud. But I was soft. The one to say, “We shouldn’t do that” when other boys jumped at the chance to risk breaking rules and limbs. I wilted at the thought of communal showers, wasn’t crass like the others or athletic, didn’t push myself and had no one pushing me. I felt outside of something within which I so desperately wanted to belong. It would be a long time before I was able to unkink that knot, but a lot of the same rope began its necessary fraying on that backpacking trip.

Up until the sixth day, I had held my own. There were taller boys, stronger ones. Funnier ones and weirder ones. I found my place as the constant one. I didn’t keep my head down as much as I kept my head up. Where some of the boys had their homesick moments, others had their sloth or temper. I simply marched along, a mask of a smile to hide behind. But physically, I was beginning to reach a wall. My dad had noticed my flagging pace a few times along the day’s trail and had made an effort to check in. This only exacerbated the issues at hand. I had to do this. Had to prove to him and myself that I could be like the others. I could be normal. Boot print in the boot print ahead.

Left, right. Left, right. With each step, my own demons were flying at me like the pine-infused winds whipping the mountainside. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t be one of the guys. I was a poser. A wannabe. Left, right. Left, right. All my lackluster academic or athletic performances whispered derision with the crunch of my footfall. Left, right. Left, right. The unknown weighed on my shoulders. What was I going to do and who was I to become when I grew up? Left, right. Left, right. The incline reached a scathing steepness and I my limit, my breaking point. How would I ever gain my father’s respect? Nothing I ever do is enough, so why even try? “I need to stop! I can’t do it…”

The otherworldly words floated on the air to my ears. They had not come from my mouth. The group slowed. The strongest one of our lot had stopped in front of me, exhausted. He had been tasked with carrying the extra water container (a hefty 20 lbs addition), as our next campsite was dry and we needed to pack in. He took his pack off, slumped over. “I can’t carry the water anymore. I can’t.” The exhaustion had taken him. Him, the toughest. The one whose footsteps I had just been trying to mimic. His bravery hit me like a ton of bricks.

At that moment, he proved himself the stoutest in physicality and character. He had owned up to his shortcoming, embracing honesty in the place of his mask.

He vulnerably asked for help and became the best of us for it. We were all posing, all fronting, trying desperately to do anything to cover up our insecurities.

In that moment, he became a man in my eyes. As the others stood around, sipping on their stores of Gatorade-powder water, I knew what I had to do. “Can somebody please take it for a bit?” he huffed. Silence. None of the other boys spoke up to take their turn. Everyone was at their own end and nobody wanted to admit it. After a moment, my dad reached over to add on the water to his own pack. “I got it.” This time the words were mine, although they felt just as alien as before. “You sure?” my dad inquired. I walked over, took the water and strapped it in. A nod was all the answer I needed to give. We readied and began our climb again, but now I avoided the footprints in front of me. I was different. I wasn’t like the others. Right, left. Right, left. And this was good. This was the point. My purpose. My strengths and weaknesses in concert gave me my identity and way forward, much like the contours of our guide map. Right, left. Right, left. Step by step, I was growing up, ascending more than the mountain.

We reached the peak, all weary and tired, but I could have leapt to pluck the feathers off the hawk soaring overhead. We looked out on the expanse, bathed and warmed in the afterglow of midday. An unconditional grace unveiled itself to me on that summit. I had tapped into some ‘other’ beyond description and grasped a peace only the wild can offer. My dad came up beside me, father and son standing there in the holiness of the peak. I turned to him. “Happy Father’s Day, pop.” The words struck him at the core. He had totally forgotten what day it was. He looked at me, rare tears glistening his eyes. “Yep. I’d say it sure is.” That was all I needed to hear.

That was the sixth day. On the seventh day, we rested; fly fishing in a river valley. And it was good.

JW: You are an accomplished martial artist. You hold a black sash ranking in Shaolin Kung Fu, an accomplishment that took over a decade in training. You’ve studied several other systems around the world, and the first thing you do when traveling is seek out the martial arts community. What is it about that culture and their traditions and heroes that has had such a profound influence on your life and work?

JF: In the martial arts there is the scholar-warrior tradition which I greatly admire and adhere to in my own life. In that tradition you practice martial arts, horsemanship, music, language… it’s a tradition of training and bettering yourself. There is a mind/body/spirit polishing that keeps the whole machine firing at a high level. It comes down to a personal code of discipline. That philosophy is how I live my life and I’m drawn to characters who follow a similar code. I’m fascinated by the idea of the poet-warrior.

JW: It seems counter-intuitive that rigorous discipline would align with your work as an artist.

JF: It’s an interesting dichotomy and it calls to mind Bruce Lee’s philosophy. He created a martial arts system called Jeet Kune Do which I’ve been practicing and it’s all about finding the ‘formless form’. His philosophy is that you practice classical martial arts for many years and through that discipline you get your skills to the highest level and then free yourself from styles, patterns, and modes. Lee said it’s like ice dissolving in water. When one has no form, one can be all forms. When one has no style, one can fit in with any style. In terms of reconciling discipline with creativity, I liken it to transitioning from classical piano scales to free-form jazz. The idea is that because you’ve trained yourself at the highest level and you have command of that vernacular, you can now be more creative. That discipline allows you freedom. I apply that to my writing as well.

JW: Is that discipline and focus what has allowed you to take on such a staggering number of projects at once?

JF: One of the main things I like to communicate to aspiring writers is that it comes down to daily discipline and commitment. Every day, I start writing before 5am. For the last 28 years, I’ve been up at 4:45 and I attack the project at hand. If I’m working on multiple projects at once, I’ll block out the day. I keep endless lists that are always shape-shifting and evolving but I always have the day organized. I like to take advantage of the early mornings because the muse is really kicking at that time. It allows you to roll over from the dream state into the creative work. You’re not censoring, you’re not editing, it’s a free-flow time. If I’m working on a re-write of something, I’ll generally do that later in the day, but if it’s a fresh, new original, I use those morning hours.

At 11am I begin my martial arts training. My training is often tailored to reflect what I’m writing and take me deeper into the material. If I’m working on multiple projects and need to switch gears during the day, I’ll use some kind of ritual to take me into that world. For instance, if I’m transitioning from the Wudang sword forms of the Crouching Tiger sequel over to Last Train to Memphis, my young Elvis movie, that’s when I’ll go practice my music studies and maybe put on my vintage Sun Records or read a few chapters from the book it’s based on.

It’s a method shift to allow me to get in touch with that part of myself that will allow me to do my best, deepest work on that subject.

I usually earmark my afternoons for keeping up the business end of the projects. I have a list that right now includes eleven projects that are alive and going as well as a novel that just sold to Simon and Schuster. Each requires a daily phone call or some kind of action that will keep them moving forward and will them into existence. It’s that focus and discipline that allows you to seize opportunities as they come.

JW: So much of who we are as people and what we believe to be true of ourselves and our society is shaped by the stories we tell. How do you view your place in that conversation and what responsibility does that bear?

JF: I’m really interested in how cultures cast their own identity and make sense of their histories, triumphs and tragedies through storytelling. I had the great honor of working with traditional Native American storytellers and medicine elders in representing their stories as a mini-series for ABC. These are people that hold the view that a story will lose it’s power if any aspect of it is changed as it is passed on. So I had the challenge of being faithful to their account while translating the narrative for television. That said, as a screenwriter and novelist, I never set out with this idea of burden or responsibility. No one has elected me to be the tribal storyteller or chronicler of history and culture. I’m more like a wandering storyteller, writing about the things that fascinate me, the things that make me angry, the things I’m passionate about, but when a story works it’s because it connects on some universal level. So telling stories through the farthest reaching medium on earth does carry responsibility, there’s no question, but I’m confident that if I’m true to my personal values and sense of justice, then I’m being a responsible storyteller. That’s the compass I use with everything I write.

JW: By any measure you’ve been wildly successful. I’m sure you could attribute that to many things, but tell me about your relationship with your wife and the role she has played in your journey.

JF: When we met I was a high school drop out with a GED, making hand grenade clips at a munitions factory in Connecticut by day and going to night school at a small community college. Richela and I were in the stage society together and I knew from the first that we were kindred spirits. We were creative people that had grown up in a community that was not kind to dreamers, the kind of place that didn’t want to see anyone break away. She was an accomplished martial artist and we had shared interests in Native American culture, eastern philosophy and tribal culture, but I think the greatest common denominator was that we believed. We believed that we could go off and live our personal legends as Paulo describes such callings in The Alchemist. There was something incredible about finding a true partner in that quest. We went off to the big city and NYU together and we’ve been together ever since, now married 28 years, and we support each other at every turn. I can tell you, it just gets better and better. The key is finding someone who respects your personal calling, or better yet — is an integral part of it.

Q&A with John Fusco: A Screenwriter’s Thoughts on Writing and Living Your Personal Legend

John Fusco holds a black sash in Kung Fu. He’s been sparring partners with Jet Li and drinking partners with Jackie Chan. His Vermont farm is a refuge for rare and wild horses. He’s the screenwriter of nine films including Young Guns & Young Guns II, Hidalgo, and The Forbidden Kingdom. His current projects include The Highwaymen which will star Liam Neeson, a sequel to Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, an adaptation of Paulo Coehlo’s international best seller The Alchemist, as well as others that he could tell you about but he’d have to kill you with a lighting quick strike to your solar plexus. He’s the creator of Marco Polo, an original series that will premier on Starz in 2014. He’s a poet-warrior, and he might be the most interesting man in the world. He took a some time to share his thoughts on writing and living a great story.

JW: John, tell me a story.

JF: Have I ever told you about the time I crossed Central Mongolia on horseback with desert nomads?

JW: Nope, let’s start there.

JF: It had been my then thirteen-year-old son Gio’s dream since early childhood to ride the Genghis Khan trail on Mongolian horses. We drove nine hours through a sandstorm across Central Mongolia to find a horse-herder who would provide us with mounts to ride across steppes, desert, mountains, and alkaline marsh toward Ulaan Baatar. When we arrived however, we found that the herder had been at a traditional wedding four days earlier, was still drunk and had lost his herd. Now stranded, we had no choice but to ride half-wild horses caught by a nomad named “Borte” who would ride with us. By day’s end, we had run out of water and were separated from our support vehicle, a russian utility van which never met us at our rendezvous point. We got to a river bed but there was no water, and at this point I saw the nomads were uneasy. We looked out across this expanse and far off on the horizon was a ridge with the sun setting quickly setting behind it. Borte said he had a vague memory from childhood of a well located in a valley out over that ridge. Our only choice was to ride full gallop, racing the sunset to try and find this well. I looked at my son, with dirt on his face, and knew that as a father, not only did I have to survive this thing, but I had to protect my son. So we went full gallop across the dessert, crossing into the “Province of Bandits” and found the well just as the sun disappeared. It’s one of those experiences that really wakes up your primal DNA. I was really proud of my son and it’s become something that we draw upon often.

JW: This theme of adventure runs throughout your films. Your heroes are men who stare down larger than life villains and overcome insurmountable odds. Given that we don’t live in the wild west, the battles that we face are not often for our lives. How important is it for modern men to seek out situations that require bravery and sacrifice?

JF: You know, I’m working on a screen adaptation of a book called Shadow Divers, about the high-risk obsessed culture of deep wreck divers. These are guys that work regular jobs, but on the weekends risk their lives for the sake of adventure and discovery. The director and I were talking about why these guys do this, what drives them, and what we realized is that ultimately they are diving for self-worth. I think at heart, boys and men are adventure seekers but as we grow older that sense of adventure gets schooled out of us. Tamed out of us. Often what you see happen is that, as boys we are always climbing mountains and setting off on great adventures in some form–and then we slowly lose that desire over time as we often find ourselves in a life routine that smothers that instinct. But It’s an inescapable part of our DNA and it’s important to tap into and pursue.

As I work on my adaptation of The Alchemist I’ve been thinking about this stuff. In the book, Paulo Coelho asks the question “what’s the world’s greatest lie?” And the lie is this: At a certain point in our lives we lose control of what’s happening to us, and our lives become controlled by fate. “The Alchemist” is about reclaiming our Personal Legend that we knew, deep inside, when we were younger. So when we cross Mongolia on horseback or run the Iditarod or climb Kilimanjaro, we are, in essence, kicking fate’s ass.

JW: Your films are not only tales of epic adventures, but of the relationships that are forged on the journey. What insights have you gained into the depth of relationship between men and are those relationships something you seek out in your own life?

JF: That theme is something that’s very important to me and I think that’s why I write about it so much. It doesn’t necessarily mean that I’ve been able to sustain or achieve that depth of relationship, but the longing is there. If you go to Fort Sumner, New Mexico you can find the tombstone of Billy the Kid. He’s buried there with some of his regulators, and the epitaph on the tombstone is one word: “Pals”. When I first saw that years ago I knew I had my theme for Young Guns. And there’s a point in that movie where the gang is in jeopardy of breaking up and Billy the Kid, trying to keep them together, says “you get yourself three or four good pals, then you’ve got yourself a tribe. And there ain’t nothin stronger than that.” It’s a key moment in that story and really defines this band of brothers.

For me, the making of Young Guns, especially because we got to do it twice with the sequel, and we were pretty much living together for three years riding around New Mexico on horseback, going down across the border and getting in to trouble with Charlie Sheen… that really became that kind of experience for me. Those guys were my posse for a long time. I think there is a deep need for that kind of friendship and I still long for it. That’s why I’m drawn to the Texas Rangers, David’s Mighty Men of the old testament, the Wulin martial fraternity. There is a shared code of loyalty across those cultures and a sense that they have each other’s backs.

Fear found me in my mid-twenties. I was living in North Carolina and racing mountain bikes. Cross country, expert men 25-29. Lots of training hours and lots of cash just to win a water bottle, but it kept me fit and was more fun than I thought I could have. I was on a training ride in West Virginia, and my heart rate monitor told me I wasn’t cooling down properly. I was staying at 150BPM with no output. So I stopped completely and went to 160BPM. And I found my mind racing, fixating on my pounding heart, as I started to lose consciousness. An ambulance was called and I was taken to a local emergency room where I stayed for hours and was tested in every way possible. The conclusion was I had had a panic attack, and I was sent on my way.

Over the next six months I had between 3 and 15 panic attacks a day, every day. The relationship I was in ended, I was fired, and I became agoraphobic. I stopped riding and training. I hid in my condo, and read everything I could find on the subject. I tried yoga, meditation, guided imagery, anti-anxiety medication, and prayer. In total panic – literally – I scheduled an appointment with the sports psychologist I had worked with while racing. He listened patiently and did some breathing and relaxation exercises with me. Trying to talk me off the ledge. Near the end of our hour we hadn’t made much progress, and I was dreading leaving his office and facing another night of isolation and the awareness that I was having a heart attack and would be dead in a few minutes. This doctor, he was a nice guy, but everyone has a limit. I’m stalling, telling him it feels like I’m dying, and he finally yells – actually yells – ‘You are dying! We all are. The trick is to get shit done before you do.’

Never underestimate the value of a good ass kicking.

There is much to fear in this life. The basics – death, pain, and loss. The philosophical – fear of the unknown, fear of meaninglessness, existential crisis. The esoteric – fear of disappointing people we care about, fear of not being able to sustain success, fear of not being who we think we are. We live in a chaotic, bombastic, high-speed, wealth obsessed, appearance obsessed, youth obsessed culture. I grew up with constant talk of imminent nuclear war, and kids today grow up in a world of never ending war and school shootings. In another life I was in marketing, and marketing teaches us there are 2 ways to sell something – greed and fear. Of the two, fear is the more powerful because it’s more visceral and more difficult to control. Fear is everywhere. It’s pervasive, and insidious, and contagious. Fear is nothing to be taken lightly. If ignored it will grow like a weed and cause breathtaking destruction.

When I left my doctor’s office I had all the fear I had taken in with me, and starting that day I added to it in every way possible. I made the choice – logic isn’t always logical – to give myself something to be afraid of. From then till now it’s been sport bikes and baja bikes and downhill mountain bikes. Lots of solo third world travel.

Solo mountaineering trips, and solo point to point alpine touring trips, and solo trips anywhere I see that looks interesting. And in the context of all that scary business, I find that at the end of the day – having been terrified for hours – I lie down and sleep like a baby. I can see clearly what it is I’m afraid of, and when I step away from the source of my fear I have nothing to be afraid of.

All fear comes down to one fear, and that is the fear of death. Dying has so many implications beyond the actual ending of our physical existence. When we die, what about all the things we haven’t accomplished? What if we haven’t built our legacy into what we think it should be? What will my girl do? Will she be OK? What about my kids? And where will my soul go? What happens to me after I die?

All fear is fear of death, because without death, we have unlimited time and opportunity to accomplish anything we wish. Procrastination is only a vice in the context of the ticking clock we’re all subject to. Without death we don’t need to wonder what comes after, and fear that awe inspiring unknown beyond.

But we all know we’re going to die someday; every single one of us. Every intelligent man must accept this, and having accepted it, must realize nothing that happens to every one of us can be all that bad. Whether our universe is the clockwork of God, or a random event, or some unknown other, this unifying process of death is applied equally to all, and if nothing else, that makes it fair.

Me personally, I don’t fear losing material things anymore. I lost all of them, and I was fine. Better in some ways. I don’t have a fear of failure anymore, having failed spectacularly in a flameout of biblical proportions. What will my girl do if I die? She’ll do what girls who lose their man have been doing for 10,000 years; she’ll move on and meet another man. I don’t have kids, but if I did they’d be fine. Kids have lost their fathers since time began, and the world has done all right.

And what about all the things I haven’t accomplished before I die? What about that grand plan I had? Well, after I’m dead I’ll be dead, so I most likely won’t sweat that anymore. And my legacy, and my name, and my achievements? That will all be forgotten and lost to memory within 2 or 3 generations, just like it is for everyone else.

Accept the reality of your own inevitable death. Accept that the world and your people will do just fine without you. Stop letting fear distract you. Stop letting your fear of something that cannot be avoided be your excuse for avoiding things that need attention. This life is short, and you’ll be dead for a long, long time. So use the time you have, and get about the business of living.

Step 1 – Find the thing you are most afraid of and kick it right in the teeth. A swig or two of your favorite adult beverage may help.

Step 2 – Repeat