Despite the fact that I preach love and redemption for a living, I will take what is true over what is futile any day. I knew this about myself, but I was unaware how deeply-held that position was until this week.
While I'm immersed in a writing project, I like to read outside my genre. Usually I don't stray too far; I am the hopeful romantic, after all. But what I read influences and inspires my writing - not in story lines, but in the strength and beauty of the writing and the storytelling abilities of the authors. If I'm not instantly wowed, I'm inclined to put it down, at least until my WIP is done. The mere fact that I not only finished but devoured these four books is saying something.
I've watched the emerging story of Brock Allen Turner's trial, conviction, and sentencing without much public comment. I have little to add to the appalled reactions of almost everyone on the planet (here's a particularly good one from ScaryMommy.com) about his six-month-probably-out-in-three sentence for rape, except this:
Like the victim, I was 22. Like the perpetrator, he was 19 and an athlete (though not university-sponsored). There was no alcohol involved and no witnesses. None but me. And I failed myself.