Apologies for the lack of a Daughter of Lilith post last week. I did already have this from Lori, but I got swamped with all sorts of other stuff. Over to Lori Lopez...
Who am I?
I am a writer. I have a vagina. I am a woman, a wife, a mother, a friend.
What makes me the right person to write about the daughter of Lilith and
Eve? At forty-seven years old, yes, I own my age, I have spent my life
working in a man’s world, doing manly jobs. In my teens, I worked with
the police. In early adult years I worked as a fire fighter and paramedic. I
spent time while my children were small working for a bank, but even there, I
took charge.
I have
never been a woman’s woman, an EVE. Therein lies the problem of my marriage, I
am half, not a help. After twenty-seven years of half-ness, I’ve learned
to accommodate my man and what many see as my manliness, while owning my
femaleness. My husband is a military lifer and if you think being married to
the military you can be an Eve and still hold down the fort during adversity,
you’re wrong. One has to be able and will to step boldly to the plate and
swing.
During my
current “day job” I am a mechanic for the USPS, repairing mail sorting
machines. Most of my co-workers are men. I stand my ground. That’s me.
Female, but not weak. I get the job done, and press forward through the
indignities of a broken nail. (That’s humor; I could care less about a broken
nail.)
Writing
is my escape, thus I write fantasy, among others. I’ve always been more
interested in jobs and adventures considered male oriented and write characters
who are the same. I find it entertaining when someone reads my stories and
automatically assumes from the character’s personality that they are male, or
if they know from the go I am female, assume the undisclosed is a woman. These
are preconceived notion that women write only female characters. Traits are not
gender required. Long gone is the time when only men wrote and only men could
write male characters. We have busted through the stereotypical separations and
just as many men as woman write both romance and horror, male and female
characters, strength and weakness. Women no longer have to use pen names when
published. (Even to write Horror.)
Who I am
has no choice but to come through in my writing. My female characters are much
like me, able to leap a building in a single bound. They are strong-minded,
even when life throws them to the ground. They are not passive, nor are they
excessively aggressive. Okay, one of them is a little overly aggressive, but we
don't talk about that. I suppose in the simplest terms, they are human.
Lace, the main character in my Fantasy series, is an Elvin warrior,
the last dragon rider, and defender of her race. The prophecy says she’ll die
rescuing the Elvin heir, she outwits the prophecy. When she sustains a lasting
injury forting an assassination, Lace feels defeated, but through the help of
her friends, learns to adapt and regain strength. I’ve learned, both in life
and in writing, that accepting help is often the vision of strength. It’s one
of the themes sustained through this series.
Women can
be devious. In one short story the main character has a long-standing marriage.
Her husband cheated over the years, and one day, after burying the dog, she
decides she’s had enough. Her plans to take care of the situation are rather
ingenious, but do not have the intended outcomes. Some of these creative
possibilities are downright humorous, in a dark head rolling sort of way.
I’ll
admit I enjoyed the Twilight series. If asked is Bella a daughter of Lilith or
Eve; I’d say Eve with the occasional Lilith tendencies. Say what you will,
Bella is a teenage girly girl. Who would agree with me that Stephanie of
the Plum series is an Eve? On the other side of the coin, I’d put Kay Scarpetta
as a daughter of Lilith.
In
the end, even I do the dishes.
My
personification of a daughter of Lilith
Flamethrower
Some days it’s enough that he
breathes. The exchange of air grates on my psyche like the high-pitched squeal
of a six-year-old. And his endless television shows, the intolerable stupidity
followed by commercials selling drugs with side effects more damning than the
symptoms they claim to cure. It all culminates into a farce as I hold to this
memory.
Hands on hips I look at the
obstinate water softener spewing its juices over my walls. I’m lost in
incredulity. Yesterday, I replaced the damn thing, the day before, the water
heater. Disgusted, I walk into the garage where the car lays in shambles
begging me to crawl beneath its underbelly hoping for an altered result.
None of it comforts. Inside I
stare over the sink from the kitchen into the family room. The black leather
chair faces a dark computer desk. I miss him. His stupid haircut and birth
control glasses. I could use his help as the house crumbles around my feet and
I momentarily drown in self-pity. He’s off serving his country,
proudly wearing the shades of green I associate with baby poop. Risking his
life. Risking our happiness, as if I didn’t matter.
If here, nothing would change,
but his dulcet voice complaining about the ineptitude of the cashier at the
store. The speed the car in front of us ran the stop sign. Another
comment on the fashion styling of teenagers. Solace in the fact that I can take
care of myself I return to the pipes and with the twitch of a finger, bring to
life the torch wishing in the back of my overtired mind I were Sigourney Weaver
about to barbecue a bunch of freaking aliens.
My name
is Lori Fetters Lopez. You can read more about me, my writing, and my
characters at www.lostinthewriting.net. Flamethrower is as of yet, unpublished.
