Reading is believing



Well, Mercy didn't write it. Mercy was too busy working on a tale of domestic suffering in what little spare time she had to spare time for a story of temporary empowerment. Deborah didn't write it either. It was too close to home for her. So I got to thinking about things. I thought about my independent wealth and the time on my hands. I thought about my membership in the ranks of those who had always wanted to write a novel someday. I thought about the importance of what we had wanted to do and the possibility of changing the world.

What person in her right mind in this apocalyptic age wouldn't be tempted by the possibility of changing the world? Without a change of myths, no revolution is ever much more than a change of laws and leaders, a social face-lift at best; the tale of how a bunch of women got fed up and fought back would be good material for myths. Our attempted revolution had publicity at the time, but no written chronicle to keep the memory alive. That's the problem with a lot of things women have done through the ages.

Thus I was delegated to refresh memories and create new myths. Or, to be more precise, I have delegated myself, since nobody else was going to do it. So I picked up pen and paper and bought myself a computer for good measure. I would send this collective baby around the world in the form of legible bytes, slinking through electronic space from Texas to Vermont to England to Japan. I was doing what I wanted to do and the world was moving. Maybe I could help keep it that way.

Rape statistics may not be encouraging, but hang on to those shreds of optimism. The story's not over yet. We all need a happy ending now and then, even if we have to create it ourselves.

It all started with a woman . . .

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