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Shortly after sending off my missive, I received a reply. It was sarcastic, challenging, opinionated, and unrestrained. It was also very funny. It could not go unanswered.

I reaffirmed my earlier points on the merits of the two principles (indeed, my general take on the issue was that neither side had any merit, there were no “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington” types among the players, it smacked of political opportunism, and it called for, in the words of the Bard, a plague on both their houses). Satisfied that my argument was unassailable, I hit send. Almost before I could turn in my chair, a tinny chime announced a new message. This was war.

As the day passed, I cursed not the distraction of the emails but the business of my day that in turn distracted me from my electronic debate. Indeed, notwithstanding my Resolution to be resolute, by the end of the day I had spent at least two hours of my work time composing and responding to emails with my cousin. The repartee was witty, the writing entertaining, and the dialogue stimulating; it was not, however, something I get paid to do, and certainly not something that had been on my to-do list.

I had, over the course of the afternoon, run roughshod over Franklin and his virtues. I had gossiped, I was anything but industrious, I was immoderate in my views and unjust in my comments, and I had not been silent. Sincerity surrendered to humor in my email exchange; Humility was nowhere to be found; and, above all, I had not resolved to perform what I ought, nor had I performed without fail what I had resolved. If I had been drunk, been unwashed, and bought something I didn’t need, I would have bowled a perfect anti-Franklin game.

{ Energy and persistence conquer all things.}

It is too easy to blame the whole episode on the ease of email. My failure was more elemental. Despite my best efforts to be resolute, I had been the opposite. As I contemplated my debacle, a colleague came into my office and commented, with some amazement, on the level of organization I had achieved. “Wow, you must really be getting some things done,” she said.

I thought of Chris and said to myself, “I believe in third chances.”

No . . . Well, Maybe

Part of my problem in keeping my Resolutions is what my mother described in her initial assessment of me: an inability to say no. I don’t know why I can’t say it. I just know that the problem manifests itself, as it always does, in my taking on too much. In the last few weeks I have agreed to lecture to a criminology class at one of the local universities (for free), teach a course on the justice system to a group of private-investigation students (for free), and establish a charity to facilitate pro bono work by local lawyers (obviously for free).

Given my need to focus on Franklin, this little personality flaw is becoming a problem. It seems just as I begin to master one of the virtues, a transgression of another occurs. Like holes in the dike, I stretch to plug one as another stream of vice-filled sludge spews forth. There seems to be no end to the things that I should resolve to do. Perhaps that’s a good thing; Franklin has made me conscious of my deeds and actions. On the other hand, I may be suffering from a significant bout of overcommitment.

I have also noted a particular pattern in my vice-like behavior. It seems the further I progress past a particular virtue—Temperance, for instance—the less likely I am to follow it. For instance, once my family had gone to bed last night, I opened up a package of Hershey’s Kisses, nibbled away, and then went to some pains to hide the evidence of my action. This was not a one-time occurrence. Cheese and crackers, salami, chips, and chocolate have all been the source of my undoing over the past two weeks.

So why do I stretch myself too thin; why can’t I say no? I expect it may be some innate need to be liked, some fear of rejection born of low self-esteem. It doesn’t matter. This book isn’t about following Sigmund Freud; it