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
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.