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Election Day 2012: I Am More Than My Vote

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Red. Blue. Conservative. Liberal. Republican. Democrat. Hippie freak. Capitalist pig. Gay lover. Woman hater. More than in any other election I can remember in my lifetime, our votes in this election are increasingly defining us, defining our ideals, our morality—our very identity.

And I am afraid.

Not to vote—too many brave men and women have given their all throughout our history to give me that right, and I will always exercise it, soberly, thoughtfully, and proudly.

What scares me is that in today’s environment, people are so very swift to make instant, blanket assumptions about who you are as a person because of the candidate for whom you vote.

My children are learning about the election process in school. When one of them ventured to declare a hesitant preference for Romney in a class discussion, a classmate snapped, “Wow, you must hate gay people!” Another overheard a student in the hall say, “You’re only supporting Obama because he’s black.” Yes, even children are jumping on the assumption bandwagon, which is to be expected to some extent–they’re kids, right? They’re not expected to have a deep understanding of all of the election issues or the candidates’ positions. But it begs the question, where are they learning to make these deeply political assumptions?

This year, our electoral process has boiled down, as it often does, to just two main choices. It’s true, there are others, but let’s be realistic here: how many can you name?

Like it or not, for all intents and purposes, we have just two candidates from whom to choose. That’s it. With all of the thorny, complicated, heart-wrenching issues facing our country today, does anyone really believe that one or the other candidate is a 100% fit for solving all of them? Of course not. But in this hyper-polarized environment we’ve created over the last decade or so, if you vote for one candidate because of his position on a specific set of issues, it automatically means that not only do you not care about the other issues, but you are actively against them. Why would anyone want to share their choice in this charged atmosphere?

I don’t think there are as many undecided voters out there today as people believe. I think what’s more likely is that there are a number of voters out there who have made a decision, but who hesitate to make it public because of the unfair assumptions that will be made as a result. We are not Undecided; we are Uneasy.

If I told you I was voting for Obama, might you make an assumption that I’m for universal health care and raising taxes on the wealthy? Yep. If I told you I was voting for Romney, might you make the assumption that I’m pro-life and anti-gay? Yep. Those are all potential assumptions.

But—and this is what people are forgetting in their sprints to judgment—what if I agree with both candidates on some things, but strongly disagree with them on others? What if I’m such a strange blend of fiscal conservatism and social liberalism that neither candidate truly represents me? I still have to choose one, don’t I? If I choose one candidate, I’ll be vilified for being an anti-gay, anti-poor, misogynistic, capitalist pig. If I choose the other, I’ll be slammed for being a spendthrift, tax-happy, anti-business, socialist pig. I can’t win; therefore, I am silent. But that does not mean that I am Undecided.

I have a choice to make, and I will do the best I can to make it, as I always do, soberly, thoughtfully, and with what I feel are the best interests of my country as a whole in mind, not my own personal interests. But I ask that everyone, today and every day for the next four years, try to remember that neither candidate will ever be a perfect fit for every voter’s beliefs, and that making assumptions about a person’s character, morality, and values based upon such a difficult and limited choice is unfair. Give people credit for being more than just their votes—we can choose one candidate without it meaning that we support everything that they espouse. We have to; otherwise, who would ever vote?

I tried to explain it to my children this way: I hate both squash and tomatoes. If that were all that was left in the world to eat, I’d have to choose one or die of starvation. Choosing one in that situation doesn’t mean I like it— it means it’s the only choice I have, so I just have to suck it up and choose.

Red. Blue. Conservative. Liberal. Republican. Democrat.

Squash. Tomatoes.

I am more than my vote.

A Halloween Nightmare

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[Note: This short story first appeared here in 2009; it was inspired by real events. Happy Halloween, everyone…]

There Is Only Room Here for Myself

He’d spotted me.

His dead shark eyes locked onto me, and in that split second, I knew: I was going to die.

I sprang to my—bare?—feet, running blindly through—through what? What was this building? A hospital? A parking garage? Too dark to see.

Chunks of plaster spit at my face as I rounded a corner; he’d just fired at me from behind. Terror exploded through me, slamming into my body. My bladder released; urine ran down my naked legs.

My wet feet slipped on the tiled floor. I went down hard as another shot roared over my head. I scrabbled toward the door to my left, skidding on my own piss.

I knew before I touched the knob: locked.

I struggled to my knees, to run to the next door—too late.

He was already there.

I couldn’t breathe. My legs were cold. Vomit curdled into my throat.

Please! Please don’t do this!

He raised the gun, stepping closer to where I knelt, shaking. The gun’s mouth seared my skin as he pressed it to my forehead.

I blinked, once.

Please.

He fired.

The world tilted—I was on the floor. It was dark. In the faint light from windows far above, I saw his heels move away from me down the hall. The man was leaving.

How could this be? How was I still alive? Had he missed?

Don’t move. You’re supposed to be dead. Don’t move.

I knew I should remain still, in case he returned, but a maddening curiosity seized hold of me.

Slowly, I began inching my fingers across my forehead, searching for the gaping edge of a wound I knew must be there, but could not, somehow, feel.

I probed.

Slowly.

Wetness.

He must have missed.

Sweat?

I touched my fingertip to my tongue.

Not sweat.

Blood.

I forced my fear aside and walked my fingers slowly up toward my hairline, searching for the hole.

My fingers touched only smoothness, my own skin, slick and cool. Terrified, I pressed on.

And then—

Bone.

Fragments, sticking to my fingertips. A horrifying absence of flesh.

Blood, inexorably pulsing.

I began to scream.

My eyes flew open.

Darkness suffocated me.

My heartbeat shook the bed beneath me—bed?

I lay utterly still, feeling the warmth of my body ebbing away with each frantic heartbeat.

I was frozen in place, waiting for the shark-eyed man to return, too terrified to move.

Surely he would return.

My legs were cold, so cold. I’d never felt such cold before.

I reached a furtive hand down to try to wrap my gown tighter around me. There was fabric under my hand, but thicker, softer—a blanket? My forehead itched; I was afraid to raise my fingers to it.

If I don’t touch it, it’s not real.

A menacing rumble sounded beside me in the dark. I froze again and held my breath, trying to identify the sound over the violent pounding of my own heart.

Sudden movement beside me—

My husband rolled over.

Sharp, painful relief, flooded through my body as it dawned on me at last where I was.

Bed.

My own bed.

Dreaming.

I’d been dreaming.

A nightmare.

I was alive.

Alive!

I cried my reprieve silently into my pillow, waiting for the terror to subside. It did, slowly, and the minutes crept by, silent but for my husband’s heavy breaths. My terror gradually began to fade and take on that particular haze characteristic of all dreams.

I jammed my back against my husband’s chest, burrowing into his arms and wrapping the blanket tightly around us both, grateful for his warmth.

Long minutes passed in the darkness around me; a sense of peace returned. I began to feel warm again, comfortable, drowsy.

I felt the tiny itch again on my forehead, and without thinking, I sleepily raised my fingertips to scratch at it.

I began to scream.

Wetness.

Blood.

Fragments.

The room tilted crazily around me once more.

And then, there were only the cold tiles beneath me, a hole blasted through my flesh and my bone, and the dim vision of the man’s heels, casually retreating down the hall.

And now for something really spooky…

I love Halloween. Maybe it’s because I watched too many horror movies when I was a kid, but I absolutely adore figuring out new ways to scare unsuspecting trick-or-treaters. (I know, that’s a little demented.) Our annual visit to the local Halloween store has become one of our favorite family traditions, and we spend a ridiculous amount of time there testing all of the latest animated ghouls, zombies, and skeletons to see which ones pass our this-will-make-someone-wet-their-pants test.

It’s weird that one of my favorite holidays should center so much around fear, because I don’t really like to be scared myself. There are definitely things that’ll do it: flying and spiders, for example, reduce me to an incoherent, blubbering puddle faster than you can say arachnophobia (or spell it). Haunted houses are pretty bad, too–those scare the daylights out of me, even the lame ones. The last one I entered when I was in my mid-twenties, and I wound up so hysterical that I had to be escorted out the secret back entrance by a very compassionate but very un-Taylor Lautner-like werewolf. Before he left me, he very helpfully found a paper bag to try to stop my hyperventilation and waited with me for my sister to come out and laugh herself silly at my abject terror.

Yep, fear’s a funny thing–unless you’re the one wetting your pants in the parking lot of a haunted house; then it’s funny and humiliating.

But seriously: In its milder forms, fear can provide a thrill. Do you like roller coasters? I don’t, too close to flying. But I hear some people do, and part of that thrill comes from the exhilarating shiver of fear coursing through you just before you plunge to your death–um, I mean, plunge to the end of the ride. Sorry, got carried away there.

Fear can also be a powerful motivator. Scared of speaking in public? Go and take a class. Afraid of dying young from heart disease? Exercise and maintain a healthy diet. Terrified of flying? Take some lessons. (Yeah, not in this lifetime, pal.)

In its more serious forms, however, fear not only doesn’t thrill or motivate, it prevents you from doing what you want to do. (To be clear, I do not want to fly.)

Publishing Widow Woman, for example, terrified me. There were many, many steps on that journey that involved overcoming serious fears, many times where it would have been easier, would have felt safer, just to give up. From the design, editing, and print vs. e-book decision, straight on through to the marketing and promotion, I’ve been scared every step of the way, right down to the tips of my fuzzy slippers. (And don’t get me started about reading reviews–terrifying.)

So how did I get past it?

The same way that everyone who’s ever chased a dream does: I asked myself what it was that really frightened about me about each step. The answer to that question was the same every time I asked it: I was afraid to fail.

Once I realized that, it was like a light bulb went off in my head. That’s all that’s standing in your way? Fear of failure? This you can manage. And once I understood that was my true fear, the fear began to lessen.

Why? Because everyone fails, at least once in their lives! Some fail small, some fail on a spectacular scale. Some failures are catastrophic, others are merely embarrassing. But if you let that fear keep you from trying, then that is the greatest failure of all, because for the rest of your life, you’ll be haunted by the most terrible ghosts, the ghosts of all that might have been, all that you might have achieved, but didn’t because you were afraid. That’s pretty damned scary.

So often, when we examine our fears more closely, a strange thing happens: They shrink, and we wonder that we were ever so scared of something so small. Suddenly, you realize you have all the courage you ever needed.

Unless you’re talking about a haunted house–I’ve got nothin’ there except for an urgent need for Depends and a cackling sister. For everything else, I’ve got a freaky scary zombie waiting for you in the yard. And I’m not going to tell you where…

Happy Halloween, everyone!

Just Another Leap From Space

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Earlier this week, Felix Baumgartner, as you’ve probably heard, leaped from his capsule 24 miles above the earth, in a death-defying feat that stunned and amazed people all over the world.

All I can say is big deal. (Warning: spoof alert in effect).

I repeat, BIG DEAL. Baumgartner’s not the first one to put on a super suit (Anyone remember Frozone? Anyone?); embark on a tortuously slow journey; disconnect all forms of support; take a huge leap of faith; and hurtle at supersonic speed toward an unknown and possibly calamitous fate, occasionally spinning out of control, with only the thinnest of parachutes to stop him before the crash.

Self-published authors do it every day.

Need proof? I’ve got a super suit. They’re called pajamas (yes, the ones that make me feel and look like a big pink Po. That’s a Teletubby, BTW, not a missing vowel…) and fuzzy slippers. They insulate me on even the coldest days, and mine even come with an extra special feature that toughens my skin against unexpected critics and verbal smackdowns from folks bearing sour grapes in their hearts.

That 2 1/2 hour balloon climb Baumgartner undertook to get to that dizzying altitude? Let’s see him write a novel. Now that’s a long trip.

As far as support systems go, well, I think it’s safe to say that when authors decide to go rogue and self-publish, they give up a lot of that. No marketing department (although traditionally published authors don’t get much of that these days either); no editorial support; no agent negotiations. Self-published authors do without, and they have to do it all. Did you see the team Baumgartner had supporting him the day of the jump? I’d love to have a mission control center like that for Widow Woman…

Yes, we self-published authors take a huge leap of faith, too, and once the book is out there, it’s easy for things to start spinning so fast it feels like a loss of control. You know, the air in the publishing world can be pretty damned thin, too. If you’re lucky (and I am), you’ve at least got (if not an enormous mission control staff) a supportive network of family and friends and colleagues who will grab hold of you when that starts happening, jerk you back upright, and set you on your feet again. They are that thin, ultra-strong fabric that stands between you and the ground–which, I imagine, hurts when you hit it at the speed of sound. A lot.

So if self-publishing is so tough, then why do it?

I’d imagine that it’s for the same reason that Felix Baumgartner decided leaping from 24 miles up was a good thing to do.

He felt compelled? He felt exhilarated? It was a mountain he needed to climb, a challenge he had to accept, a moment in his life that was so great that he would always regret not having attempted it? It was something so vitally important for him to accomplish he was willing to risk a horrible death for it? All right, I concede on that last one–I like my book, but I don’t want to die for it. Just to clarify. But all of those other things?

Yeah. I get ’em. I’m a writer.

P.S. Way to go, Felix. Outrageous.

Let the Revolution Begin!

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Kudos to Beaver’s Pond Press today, for their wonderful Indie Author Summit 2012. This event blew me away, bringing together experts from every aspect of the publishing business–publicists, editors, social media gurus, speakers and of course, authors–to continue to foment the literary revolution already well under way. More and more authors are deciding to skip traditional publishing routes altogether, abandoning agents and query letters for independence and control over their work, and the attendees this morning couldn’t have been happier.

Still, it’s a wild, wild world out there at the moment, so giving us indie authors a morning of open access to folks like author Beth Bednar; Dara M. Beevas, VP of Beaver’s Pond Press and author of The Indie Author Revolution: An Insider’s Guide to Self-Publishing; digital content products expert Eric Christopher of Ugly Dog Digital; performance coach, Deirdre Van Nest; online media expert Jorgy Jorgensen of Agent41; PR expert Sara Lien (Lien Public Relations);and social media expert Tai Goodwin provided helpful answers and meaningful support for every step of the self-publishing journey.

Best of all, though? This event was fun and funny. “Write the damned book!” “Self-publishing is a contact sport!” “A quote from my aunt, Maya Angelou. Actually, she’s not, I just like to call her that.” I just love it when an event turns out to be not just as good as I hoped it might be, but even better. Woohoo! I’m feelin’ all Che Guevara now, and ready to revolt!