One of the great joys in writing for me comes from the unknown. Just as with reading the work of another, I know not what will come next when I write, at least, not until I’m on the home stretch sprinting toward the finish. This means I write-read, learning the story after my fingers type it out for my eyes to see. It sounds crazy, sort of like you playing a game against yourself, except this works.
In the second to last post, I shared the opening of a novel already written in rough draft form, three hundred twenty seven pages, on paper. The shared element told the story of a young woman struck down by an automobile, only to have emergency care denied by responding medical technicians, once they learn she is a pre-operative transsexual. As mentioned in a closing addendum, I based the denial on an incident in Washington DC in the late 1990s, albeit the facts are wholly fiction.
When I moved further into writing the story, a curious thing happened. The initial element was to be the storyline, of how a community learned of the negligence and how it came to terms with what happened. Except, the deceased woman’s partner was this lost soul, broken by the combination of loss of someone she loved with believing she caused her death. I won’t explain how the breakup seems to contradict the melancholic result, but there is a reason, an important story reason, why.
This past week, a story in the news details how a transwoman injected various chemicals into her body and others. This is a dirty little secret of the trans world, not necessarily widespread, but common enough to be something we need to speak and work against.
Me, I wrote about it in Cassie’s Shot, the very story of which you read the beginning. Again, I won’t say how and give away plot details, but it is a major factor in the story, triggering a cascade of events reaching beyond a single person to others, in fact to a venerable college. This is why the story pulled me elsewhere, because the collateral damage was so bloody significant. She sacrifices everything in life not to save her, but to protect and save memories, hers, and others.
There is where I found significance. There is where I was enthralled. I had to explore how she came to this choice, starting in the before, of how she became a national personality, how some loved and others hated her for all the wrong reasons, and how she gave it all and herself up for what she believed.
I don’t want to see more stories like mine or like the real one linked to above, where people inject horrific chemicals in order to overcome a debilitating condition, gender dysphoria. On a larger scale, so many other medical issues threaten lives, and yet America stubbornly argues over how to design a system of health care, leaving in place a broken one that leaves out some fifty million people. Lies circulate – intentionally told – about the solutions of other countries in order to perpetuate the existing machine. All I know is, America needs to take care of its people, all of its people, and not just those most fortunate.
In this holiday season, if I had one wish for this country, it would be we’d start taking care of our own, every last one of us.