Lesson in Courage

Iraqis turned out to cast their ballots in their first free election in over fifty years. It is remarkable that the elections proceeded as scheduled. More astonishing is the sheer number of Iraqi people who rose up and exercised their new found right to vote under the threats of death by radical insurgents.

The numbers are staggering considering the circumstances. It is estimated that between 60 to 72 percent of all eligible Iraqi voters actually voted. Weigh those numbers against the estimated 50 percent of all eligible American voters who participate in our democracy by voting, and it is clear that the Iraqi people have sent a message to the world: they are willing to risk everything to embrace democracy.

Americans would do well to take note and reflect upon the dear price that has been paid by those who came before us to ensure our right to vote. We have taken our open elections process for granted for too long. How shameful it is that in our free nation so many fail to take part in the democractic process that is the model for the world.

The Iraqi people have reaffirmed that which our forebearers knew so well; that freedom is worth sacrificing for. The newsfootage of Iraqi women, most of whom have suffered unimaginable oppression their entire lives, casting their ballots should serve as a stark reminder that women in our own country were at one time ineligable to vote. Were it not for the committment, courage and sacrifices of women during the Sufferage movement, perhaps American women would still be refused the vote.

It has been reported that an alert guard at a polling location in Iraq noticed as a man came charging toward the enterance to the polls. When the man refused to halt the guard opened fire, and the man, an apparent suicide bomber, blew up. The Iraqis who turned up to vote at that location were not disuaded by the attempt on their lives, rather they became inscensed and refused to leave the polling place without casting their ballots. What a lesson in courage.

The Truth is Sometimes Stranger than Fiction

I know, I know - I fell off my blogging wagon for a while, but this time for very good reason: I've been writing like mad. I am working on a personal essay that will evolve into a researched article as I nail down all the details. This is something I have put off writing for the past several years because the subject matter; my having been stalked for two years, is very personal to me, and was frankly too painful for me to write about. I needed some time and space before I could even communicate the particulars effectively. So, I never wrote about it... I didn't even etch my thoughts in my journal.

The stalking changed my perception of safety to such an extent that I didn't even feel safe writing it down. As if not putting it in print made it less real and so less frightening. But now I am past fear. My stalker is my ex-husband. He shadowed my every move, stole my mail, broke into my home, and continually threatened me for two years after divorce. But it didn't stop there, he also electronically stalked me, breaking into personal information and gained access to everything from my pharmacy to my bank accounts.

It took two years and more than fifty police reports before he was finally convicted of several counts of Felony aggravated Stalking, and sent to jail. He is now serving five years of Felony probation in another state, as the State of Florida deemed him such a danger to me that they refused to permit his remaining in Florida to serve his probation.

The kicker in all of this was that because I had been at one time married to him, the police always considered his persistent infiltration into every aspect of my life as a domestic issue. Had he been a stranger he would have been arrested long before he violated my order of protection by coming to my house to do god-knows-what to me. Thankfully, my parents had hired private detectives to protect me, and on the two separate occasions that my stalker came to my home, they were there to intercept him.

The story of all that happened and the legal battle that ensued is so vast and detailed that I am sure I will need to put it all down in book length eventually. For now I am writing little segments at a time starting with an essay with the intention of working it into articles on the subject. I hope my experiences with the horror of being stalked will help another who is suffering the same violation.

The writing is cathartic, but time consuming, as I need to step away from the page every so often to be able to endure recounting it.

The strangest part about living through a stalking is the reaction of other people when they learn about it. They are not sure what to say, and invariably they become uncomfortable with it. Like it is a disease that may be contagious. Strange... but then again sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction.

Tuning Out the Noise

One sentence at a time. That's the mantra I repeat over and over again in my mind. Sounds good in theory, but in practice I am having difficulty tuning out the noise of the world around me for long enough to string two sentences together. I am finding it excruciatingly hard to reconcile my fiction writing schedule as a necessary, or even deserved venture while there is is so much grief and suffering in the world. The macabre horror and human wreckage left in the wake of the Indian ocean tsunami disaster weighs heavily on my heart. The images of hardship and war burn through my mind, and cause me to wonder if pursuing my creative work is at all worthwhile. It seems an utterly useless use of time - wasteful - even selfish. How can I justify writing fiction when the world is wrought with turmoil and sadness?

Then, there are also the distractions of daily life, which here in Florida include constant rebuilding from the hurricane bombardment of the past summer. Today roofers seem to have descended en-mass in my neighborhood and my neighbor, directly across the street, is finally getting his roof repaired, along with several other homes on the block getting their roofs replaced. Hammering, pounding,drills, dumping of debris - are just a few of the sounds permiating through the closed door of my office. If it's not roofers, it's tree guys, or screen room enclosure guys, or landscaping technicians (aka: lawnmower guys) causing the din of noises that assail the sanctity of my office.

How to tune it all out? That is the question running my creativity ragged. Perhaps I shouldn't write today. Maybe I'm not supposed to. In light of all that is going wrong in the world, it's possible that I don't even deserve to write fiction. What a luxury to have such time and waste it writing! What a gift to have such ability!

What a crime to waste such a gift by not writing. Failing. Procrastinating. Avoiding. Hiding. That is what I am doing. Not writing is NOT an option. Regardless of how I am processing the chaotic world around me.

There. I talked myself into writing something - one sentence at a time. Just like the roofers on the house next door, I've peeled away the shredded layers that caused the leak and in the process revealed what was causing the damage. It is my responsibility to provide adequate shelter for my creative musings.

A writer must be convinced their ideas have a right to exist on paper, or they never shall. Better get hammering.