Punk-Ass Book Jockey

I am not wading in.

I just wanted to say that in the last few years, I have discovered that five women I know - both friends and family members - have stories far far different then mine. I've dodged the bullet of sexual harm; they didn't. I assumed my story was normal; it's not.

When you find out that people to whom you would give a kidney are people who walk around wounded, secretly -- whether or not they're in therapy; whether or not they're healing -- it makes you angry. And humble. And more tender.

We do not know who is reading/watching our fanwork. And we also do not know if women we love may be women who are hurt.

If we acted as if among our fan audience were women we love, who may be hurt, perhaps that would be best. If we extended the heart of compassion we have for our best beloveds -- if we imagined how we want to take care of them and keep them happy and intact and whole -- and treated our potential audience the same way, perhaps that would also be best.

There are many times that practicing compassion can seem like an uphill battle -- this is not one of them. This discussion about warnings hands us an impossibly easy way to take care of each other. I think we should all take the opportunity. After all, tomorrow we'll end up finding a hundred and one ways in which choosing compassion is awkward or inconvenient. This is low-hanging fruit: ripe, easy to reach, local and in season.