Help!... I Can't Title This.

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If you've been following my 55 Flash Fiction serial for the last several weeks, you've been reading the story of a woman in Independence-era Punjab (in western India for those unfamiliar). My heroine is a woman who has finally had enough. Enough of the abuse, enough of the humiliation, enough of being considered "less than". Some of my readers have applauded her, none have blamed her and all seem interested in where she's going from here.

And I appreciate that. Truly, I do. Because a story without readers is pretty useless. Which, by extension, kind of makes the writer pretty useless too. So I'm glad I can entertain you with the story of a brave woman beating the odds.

But she's not real.

I write fiction. My heroine, as genuine as she might seem, is a fictional character. She does what I tell her to do, without questioning, without thinking, without hesitating.

And without fear.

Because a fictional character cannot feel fear. She doesn't know the naked terror that comes from wondering every.single.day if this will be the day "he" finally goes too far. She doesn't understand the pervasive apprehension that comes with hearing his car in the driveway and wondering which one of "him" will walk through the door.

Because she lives only in my mind, and on the pages of this blog.

I'm glad you're standing behind my brave Punjabi warrior, because it keeps the story alive. But it's candyfloss when put beside the real thing. If you've got the nerve to handle the undiluted truth of the story, I invite you to visit a friend of mine, Maggie Dammit. The women in her story are flesh and blood, not ones and zeros. They exist somewhere in the three-dimensional world.

Except one.

One of the ones you'll encounter at Maggie's exists on this plane only in the memories of those who knew and loved her. But hers is not my story to tell. That I leave to one who knew her.

So why are you hanging around here? Go forth and read.

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