and in the middle of september ...

I think as writers, we all experience different degrees of what has referred to as "bleeding" - when our characters who matter just so much to us end up influencing everything we feel during a particular time frame, be it a day or an hour, or even just the 4 minutes it takes to finish a song. I think we've all experienced that moment in time when we are not ourselves but our characters - a walk we take, a song we are singing along to. We have those moments of FLASH - when something that is going to happen to our characters is as clear as day or when something that did happen once to them is laid bare before us and we know why so and so does what it is they do. We have those while writing, we have those while dreaming, and while simply driving down the road, listening to the radio.

Today ... I was flipping through the stations on my way back from a home visit and caught the end of Daughtry's September. Now I love this song. I've always associated it with how Mike has moved on from losing Marc. But the images I had from him were so overwhelming I actually had to blink tears away. Not because the song is that powerful, but because the images were. As a writer, I so often run into this wall because I feel there is no way in the universe that I am able to translate what I see in my mind into mere words. And yet, to me, there is nothing more powerful than words.

Moments like this are almost daily occurrences for me. It's one reason I do blogs for my characters and one reason I don't care if anyone ever comments. But it was just a moving moment that I felt like sharing and I was wondering what kinds of experiences you've had recently that are like that. What's stopped you dead in your tracks as you watched a character you adore in your mind?

and for dinner ... rice and lentils ...

You are all in my novel. The question is, which one.

My life as a novel. My brain is always working.

The guy at the Old Navy counter and the girl at the Coffee Shop at the Pride Center ... they are in some kind of secret, twisted relationship that only they understand. The dog and the cat talk to each other. The world spins and turns and the sun sets in lavender and blue over the edge of the lake and I want to stop my car and write it because a young kid just got drafted to the team of his dreams and he is staring out at this lake in his new home and full of dreams all the while thinking of the father who died when he was 12 and how that father can't be here to celebrate this moment.

Marshall and Mary discussing Marshall's alien abduction. Dana and Fox discussing William. Alex and Olivia discussing children and marriage and love and joy and law and pain.

These stories all in my mind, all at once. Some make it to paper some dance through my subconscious, coming up in dreams. Others emerge into character blogs. The stories of others rest on my heart and I want to tell them, to write them into forever, to make sure that the stories are remembered. Forever.

So the question is ... which story will keep me up tonight?

Tonight was one of those nights that you hold close to your breast and never, ever let go.

I trudged down to the Pride Center, sinus headache and all, for the writing workshop for the Breast Dialogues. And in that room, eight women talked openly and honestly about the breast and the empowerment and the shame of the breast. The pain of having big boobs, the pain of having small ones. Women talked about binding because they equated breasts with shame. And we talked about the joy, the abject joy, of the breast. We were open and we were connected and we were women. Together we laughed and we cried and the evening ended on this note when Mekeda (I know I'm spelling her name wrong) burst into TEARS as she told us she was scared to read her piece because in it she talked about the joy of growing up unashamed of the breast or the body and in so many pieces, we had discussed our shame at becoming women. She was beautiful. She was honest. She cried. And then she read and we all laughed and cried and gods, I fell in love with her words as she performed.

She was what women should always aspire to be and I am honored to know I will be on the same stage as her.

I then scampered down State Street toward Coffee Connection to meet up with Bi Utah and one of the women in the performance is also in the coffee group and so we met up again and a bunch of us sat and chatted about abjectly nothing and it was wonderful.

There are nights when, as a writer, you are reminded to get outside and live. Just enough. So that you can go home and write about it. Don't get out too much. :) Just enough.

Tonight ...

I'll be reading from "Eve's Rib" my collection of short stories that discuss sex and sexuality from seemingly feminine perspectives.

Where?
When She Speaks, I Hear the Revolution

When Salt Lake City's "When She Speaks I Hear the Revolution" debuted in May of last month, something amazing happened. Women of a variety of different backgrounds, trans women, gender queer/gender rebel artists came to take their place behind the mic. They took the opportunity that they had to make their voice heard. The power of an open mic is in celebrating the VOICE.

When She Speaks I Hear the Revolution aims to celebrate the words/performances of local women from all walks of the creative paths. Musicians, poets, comedians--all creative women are welcome here.

In addition to being a space where women can share their work with one another, When She Speaks...will be a venue of support and encouragement. It will be a place where we can network with each other and make things happen.

This open mic is inclusive of transgendered identities--mtf, ftm, genderqueer among others. The purpose of this open mic is to shine a light on the voices that -don't- get a lot of attention and encourage them to share their words and their art.

The event will be largely women-centered, but men are encouraged to be a part of the audience and support the performers!

What I've Discovered in Writing Fanfiction

It's been a long time since I posted and I finally feel like I'm back on track here about my writing, which was what this blog was meant to be in the first place.

This latest project started simply.

I was dabbling in the world of Law and Order: SVU fanfiction. I'd explored different ideas - from Elliot and Olivia having a sexual relationship to a long-term partnership between Alex and Olivia. I'd brought in the fallout from Olivia's sexual assault, her PTSD, and even brought up the idea that as a kid, a teacher took advantage of her and she got pregnant as a result. Elliot's daughter, Lizzie, came out as a lesbian. I was happy with what I'd put together.

Over the last eleven years, SVU has taken on the role of educating the public about rape and sexual assault statistics for all populations. Just this season, the show has tackled biphobia and rape in the lesbian community, sexual assault against people with disabilities, the meat packing industry, alcoholism, and of course, the gut wrenching truth of life in the Congo. In previous seasons they have dared to give Olivia PTSD, they've focused on bi-polar issues, rape in the African American community, AIDS, and the life of the child soldiers in Africa. In a world full of white TV characters, they have bent (but not broken) the color line with characters like Monique Jefferies, Odafin Tutuola, George Huang, and of course the fierce Melinda Warner. They even had Detective Adam Lake, a Native American raised in the foster system. For a season, they had the chance to offer a different perspective and to tell stories through his eyes much the same way they use Finn to tell stories in the African American community. Instead, they wrote him out of the show and he's been forgotten, like that bad date we all hope never comes back again.

They had an opportunity to utilize the world at their command and instead, they walked away.

I didn't.

One recent morning I woke up and started writing a piece about Alex in witness protection. It took place post "Ghost" so I must have watched that ep before bed or something, or so I thought. But because I'm not one to ignore the muse for any reason, I just started writing. And I kept writing. And I kept at it.

What emerged was a series of stories that were more about Alex Cabot than the SVU world. It was witsec, from Alex's point of view, and for this relocation, they'd dropped her onto the Navajo reservation in Arizona, right at the New Mexico border. Initially, I wrote without a lot of research. I know the area, just enough, and the story wasn't about the reservation but about Alex. I didn't need desperate specifics.

The story introduced Ali Ramos, an artist whom Alex quickly falls for. The side note of her mixed race heritage (half-Mexican, half-Navajo) is only brought up to give background into the character. Alex doesn't discover her inner Indian in this story (which is always a trap when you put white characters into Indian country), but she does discover a part of herself she hadn't realized existed. She comes to realize she must be a part of a community and not isolated away as she was not only in witsec but in New York as well. She misses Olivia and the life they had together, but she also decides to live not just to survive.

Ali didn't go away as I thought she would when Alex returned to New York. Instead, she'd worked her way into my heart as a character and, I quickly learned, into the hearts of many of my readers as well. Only one negative comment about Ali sticks in my mind and no, Ali has not dropped dead. She is alive, but not so well.

As I started my work on another series within this fanon, I began typing something that made me ache in ways I haven't ached since writing the death of Marc Gadling in Crossing the Gate. As the scene of Ali's recovery played out before me, I realized I was looking at a storyline that had been in the making since I introduced Ali into the mix. Ali's rape at the hands of an agent of the US Government prompted me into research and what I found horrified me.

I was already very aware, as we all should be, of the lack of understanding and proper history given to the Indigenous people of this country. Students learn only briefly of the genocide plotted by the federal government against the Indian tribes and only some learn about the forced sterilization of women into the 1970's. The disease infected blankets and the forced relocation are almost romanticized while we talk of the glories of Andrew Jackson. Indian culture is homogenized into bear spirits and feathers and Kokopelli charms that are all worn without understanding the meaning behind them. Art galleries that specialize in Native art are owned by whites and the Indian jewelry sold in kitsch shops from Moab to Memphis is made in China. Living in a state with no less than five reservations, I understand (at least on the surface) about the poverty the reservations face. While people drive through the states toward the Grand Canyon or Zions or any of the Southwest Desert locales, they turn a blind eye to the poverty of the nations that surround the tourist destination. We feel sorry for the world we've helped to create, but we do little to actually change it. That would involve work and educating ourselves. I am the first to acknowledge my own guilt in that realm.

But then I began writing Ali. And I began doing my research on the area in which I'd placed her home. And then ... I began my research on the statistics of rape among Native American women. What I found still turns my stomach.

It isn't so much that Indigenous women are more likely than their white counterparts to be assaulted. Women of color in general are more likely to assaulted - regardless of race. But what horrifies me is the United States complicity in what happens on the reservations. Jurisdictional boundaries restrict the ability of Tribal Courts to prosecute and when evidence is turned over to the US attorney, it is often shuffled and ignored. There is no funding for training, for BIA agents, for crime solving in general, and women suffer. It is possible for this to change, but until today, the United States was one of the nations that had still not signed onto the Declaration of the Rights of Indigenous People. Only today did the Obama Administration opt to "Take another look" at the document. Until then, it had been ignored.

This passion did not develop due to my own ties to my Native heritage. I am white, I come from a white background, and while like many Americans, I can trace some of my roots back to the Cherokee Nation I was not taught about those roots as a child. I learned on my own about the Trail of Tears, but I cannot trace my own lines. I do not even know the name of my Indian ancestor. And while this story has awakened in me a desire to learn those roots, roots that have always spoken to me even while they were shouted down by others, the story itself is about the chance to present something that not many people are truly aware of. At least, in my world.

But I wondered how to present this story within the bounds of my SVU fanfiction. I'd taken the story almost as far as it could go. But then the show presented me with a gift: the departure of ADA Alex Cabot. While I, like many fans, hated to see her leave it opened up a whole new realm for the character and as a result, for writers like myself. To me, fanfiction isn't just about how fast we can get our favorite characters into bed together. It's about exploring the nature of these characters. For all the screaming and wailing of hands, the road they placed Alex on was perfect. Not only for the character but for me as a writer.

Why? Because now I have leave for her to research and prosecute rape as a war tactic not only in Africa and the Hague but right here in the United States.

You might ask why I am not writing this story in a novel format? Well, while it has inspired a novel idea, right now I can reach more people through fanfiction and to make this story work in a novel format, it will need editing, reworking, and research that lies before me. Not to mention a complete change of characters and venues. If even 30 people read what I've written right now, it's 30 people more than would if it were sitting in my notebook. And with fanfiction, I have a natural audience - one that would be expanded if people would shake off their "Shipper" attitudes and read something that isn't their primary ship. It isn't about who is sleeping together and to reduce storylines to that trivial of a concept is an insult to the producers and writers, the audience, and the characters in the story. (And I say that to both the fans and the producers.) Olivia's bed partner is much less important than the greater stories we get the chance to tell in fanfiction. Especially in a fandom like SVU.

Stories are told on network TV not just because they are engaging but we know they are engaging because they poll well and sit well with research groups. But I cannot help but wonder if they have ever bothered to float the idea of telling this story to the American public. While Manhattan does not have any reservations to speak of, that has not stopped SVU from telling stories about Africa or even flying to Bosnia to face off with the child porn rings of Eastern Europe. I am not saying this to belittle those very important stories. I am saying it because if SVU wants to remain relevant, they need to be willing to tell EVERY story. Not just the ones at the top of the headlines. SVU has told stories about gay athletes; they can tell one story about one of the untold crises in this country.

As for me, I continue to write and to research. I continue to expect the best of myself not only in my original work but in my fanfiction as well. It's my place as a writer to tell these stories. And this one has become important to me.

Important links:
A Warped World for Native American Women Seeking Justice
Violence Against American Indian and Alaska Native Women and the Criminal Justice Response: What is Known
Sexual Abuse of Native American Women
The American Bar Association Commission on Domestic Violence
Ask Amnesty
The Maze of Injustice Report (Amnesty International)
The stores this world inspired.

Less Than Human

Dear Utah Lawmakers:

Over the course of the past few months, as I have seen the legislature tear down the hopes of a Common Ground between Utah's Straight and Queer communities, as I have read the harsh words of Senator Buttars and Governor Herbert, and now watched the "trial" of DJ Bell, I have come to learn something, something that is a harsh, terrifying reality to me: In your eyes, I am less than human.

It's a funny thing, you see, that you consider me thus. I am a registered voter in South Salt Lake and since moving back to the state in 2005, have not missed an election - primary or general. I pay my taxes - state, federal, and sales. As I am a single adult, my taxes are no higher than a single adult who shares a similar situation. I attend Salt Lake Community College and in doing so, sit alongside many other students. I keep my car registered and insured, and when I am pulled over for failing to yield or when I receive a ticket for an expired meter, the cop does not ask if I am gay or straight. The ticket does not have a clause that instantly increases the cost if it were to be known that I am a member of the Queer community. I work, full time, thereby increasing my ability to contribute to the economy which I do by attending community events such as concerts and Jazz games. I am healthy, therefore the health insurance premiums my company so generously pays for me are lower. When I need care I seek it and I make sure to not miss my annual exams, no matter how much I may hate them. My dog is always walked on a leash and I do my best to clean up after the waste she leaves behind. I do admit to being a loyal University of Utah fan, but that fact alone cannot make me stand out as Queer.

Like most of the men and women who surround me, I do my best to pay my bills on time. Only once in the past year have I been faced with an overdraft in my checking account. On the income I pull in as a staff member for a local non-profit, I help to support my mother who, due to a disability, is on a fixed income and the hours she herself can work are limited due to health and Social Security requirements. As Medicare does not provide any transportation and Flextrans holds her to a conditional riding provision, I am her primary means of transportation and so I work her working and school schedule and doctor's appointments into my every day working schedule. I am lucky enough that she is willing to be flexible with my own schedule. Refusing to put my mother into a nursing home, I share her residence, providing care she needs on a daily basis. Most of it is minimal, but because I am in her life she does not need to rely solely on frozen dinners but together we can have fresh foods and as a result she is healthier. Around me, countless others make similar provisions for aging parents, and many of these fellow residents are also trying to raise children and make a marriage work.

In many ways, I am indistinguishable from my fellow Utahans. Even without being raised in the Mormon faith, living in Utah has granted me a respect and understanding of those around me who believe. Most Sundays I can be found waiting for my mother while she attends the Catholic Parish of her choice. I am "Aunt Shauna" to many of my friend's children. I donate time to a local non-profit. I am the organizer of a community group of writers. I am part of this community.

Daily, I stare at the three, stubborn gray hairs on my head and wonder if it is time to begin dying again. I work out - but not enough. I pass out in front of the television.

Yet you, my lawmakers, would chose to set me aside. You would chose to label me as deviant, different, dangerous. My membership in a community of people for some reason scares you. Because I do not base my choices in love on gender alone, I must be ostracized. Because my friends love one of the same sex or gender we are told we are less than you. We can be spit upon, beaten, and ignored by police and you will do nothing but nod with deaf ears while our few friends who sit among you plead for change.

I will not bring the argument to your level by reminding you that once, you were treated as different, deviant, and dangerous by a government you now accept stimulus money from all the while decrying expanded spending on the federal level. To reduce the argument to that level takes the humanity from all of us. To say, "you have to be nice to me because you were once bullied" is as useless as a newspaper in a desert downpour. All I can do is continue to vote. All I can do is continue to spend my money wisely - at local businesses and on causes that I believe in. All I can do is continue to write, to reveal the insanity of your argument.

I am human. By the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of the United States of America, I am even considered equal. While law upon law passed in the name of preserving the family (at both the federal and state level) reminds me that I am not allowed to marry should I fall in love with a woman, that at any moment I can be fired or evicted for being out about my sexuality, and states that if I am the victim of a hate crime the same laws that apply to others do not apply to me, I am as human as you are. I have family I love, a faith I am devoted to, dogs that I walk, cats I care for, and fish I love to watch swim in their tank. I fall in love with TV shows and read glorious books and work too hard for too little pay.

In the end, there is no difference between us. If it is your religion you follow, may I remind you that God, any God, is a God of love. That we, as human animals, are destined for love and joy and pain and sorrows. And that we, members of the Queer community, are your daughters, your sons, and your grandchildren.

Remember that as DJ Bell sits on trial.

Sincerely,
A member of your population.

venting ...

I've been holding back a lot of what I've wanted to say recently. I don't know why. Maybe because I haven't wanted to get into it with the world at large, but it's definitely contributing to my case of the blahs this week.

But I turned on Queensryche's Tribe album today and of course it got me thinking. One of the many, many post 9/11 albums that dealt with the problems in American society, I think it is also one of the most powerful. Say what you want, I know I'm biased, but there's no pulling punches. And much of the blame is leveled on society. The US needs to get it's collective head out of it's very large, french-fry eating ass.

For example ...

Not everyone who disagrees with Obama is racist, no. Hell, I disagree with him more than I agree with him and I support the guy. But it cannot be denied that in the opposition to anything he says, there is a very vocal, minority, subculture undercurrent that is fueled by racism. Even latent racism. They are older, they are white, they were born into segregation and while they always liked that "nice black family" down the street they were never threatened because that family wasn't in power. I think the media is completely overblowing Carter's comments and what people have said. I also think to ignore the reality means we do not move forward. Much of the opposition has used blatant, Jim Crowe era visuals to represent Obama, the White House, etc. (Think watermelons, monkeys, etc.) Remember that before you think that some people aren't fighting him with racist tactics.

Speaking of the president, It doesn't matter that Obama called Kayne a jackass. It was off the record, and if we had a nickle for every time Bush said something stupid off the record, we'd have never had a crash in the economy. And before you talk about the Joe Wilson thing - it's Congress making hay out of that. The President accepted his apology and he moved on.

What drives me crazy is not the lazy, someone-else-can-do-it attitude that permeates this culture. What drives me crazy is that no one bothers to actually think critically anymore. We are all, myself included, reactionary. We do not study our history. We take what is said to us on face value. We refuse to allow ourselves to go through the transformations that will change our lives. We are held back by fear, by the idea that we will not conform to the world, that someone *gasp* will look at us.

We are sheep. Every last one of us. We follow along with our celebrity culture, with our reactionary politics, and as a result, have lost the art of conversation. As a loner, as someone who keeps a few close friends and shuns too much public interaction, I am hardly advocating that everyone step out their door and hug each other ...

... But we have to do something.