Sometimes you just gotta say, "what the fuck?" and do it. That was my rationalization anyway when I found myself at Red's Firing Range yesterday in Pflugerville, Texas, a suburb of Austin. Complete with a big 'ole American flag painted on the front wall that faces the highway and lots of trucks in the parking lot. All that was missing was a bumper sticker that said "I'll give you my gun when you pry it out of my cold dead hands."

As I get older, I find myself increasingly willing to step outside my comfort zone and try new things. The opportunities seldom present themselves; I typically have to search them out. Like trying karoke for the first time, or going to a BlackEyed Peas concert in Newark, New Jersey or line dancing with a bunch of women, most of whom were at least 20 years my junior, and my recent joining of a writers' group and putting myself out there for criticism. Voluntarily!

This latest forey into the great unknown was prompted, ironically, by my attempt to write fiction. I've been working on a story, a novel, actually, in which the young protagonist reluctantly agrees, upon the insistance of her father and her boyfriend, to learn how to shoot a gun and keep one at the ready.

The last time I held a gun, if you can call it that, I was 9 or 10. It was a BB gun. I didn't like it. Never had any desire to hold one again, much less to shoot one or even think about using one against another human being.

My husband was in the Israeli army for four years and I've heard him, many times, talk about his rifle and how soldiers were expected to treat it as if it were an extra appendage. Set your gun down unattended and you're headed for a stint in the Israeli military prison. 

But he's never held a handgun. So, he was no help.

I had tried to make the experience of my character feel real. But after several false starts, I finally said, "I got nothin" and gave up.  That's when I began to consider giving it a shot (so to speak) myself. My hair stylist's husband is a policeman and I figured he might have a suggestion of where to go.  She didn't even have to pass the inquiry along. "Go to Red's," she said.

So I did. It was Ladies' Day. Yep, on Ladies' Day at Red's you get half off. I brought my psychologist friend with me for moral support. I can't tell a 22 from a 45 from an AK47. Turns out she knew more than me. And she kept urging me to try the 45. "If you're going to do it, you might as well do it right."

And the guy behind the counter, who was incredibly patient with this middle-aged, female, firearm neophyte, said, " Well, if this is for home use and someone breaks in, you might have to shoot them 3 or 4 times with the 22; with a 45, all it takes is one shot." I'd be lucky to hit my target once. Better to go with winner takes all. So, I opted for a Kimber 45. "The cadillac of 45s" or so I was told.

I was shown the proper stance (sort of like downhill skiing, only your legs are further apart), how to load the bullets, insert the magazine and lock it into place, release the safety, how to hold the gun in both hands, so it doesn't get away from you on the recoil and how to line up the site on the target. It was a lot to remember. My nerves got the better of me and my palms were sweating, making it even more difficult to hold the gun in place.

But when everything finally came together, I took a breath and pulled the trigger.

All I can say is...I'm not exactly sure what to say. It was nothing like I expected. The incredible force unleashed is shocking, frightening, awe-inspiring, and difficult to fully comprehend.

I think we get so desensitized to guns being shot at the drop of a hat on television and in movies and seeing the unrealistic reaction of the gunshot victims, "Oh, dear, I've been shot," after which the victim (usually a man) turns to his beloved and shoves his tongue down her throat.

But then again, It's been said that most men could be on their death beds and still want it. So maybe the depiction is not so far off base.

My advice, based on my very brief experience? No matter where you stand on gun control, I think everyone should try it to have a full understanding of what it is we're really talking about. I hadn't a clue. Now all I can think about is what it must feel like to be on the receiving end.

Clint Eastwood came to mind in the midst of my repeatedly pulling the trigger.

"But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?"

I saw that movie decades ago. It was cool. Clint was cool. It taken me until this week at Red's in Pflugerville, Texas, to truly appreciate the power he warned of. And now, I can feel the power too. But I think I'll stick to the power of the written word from here on out.