Reflections on a violent encounter

It's a privilege to come out of an assault intact.

I say that because, as those of you in the field of self-defense know, it's far more often about luck than skill. Staying alert, knowing what to do -- yes, these are good things. But there's more going on in a violent encounter that you can't control than that you can.

Today I was lucky.

The man who came into the cafe wasn't after me. He was after another woman. He didn't have a weapon, but he had fists, elbows, a loud voice, and a shocking willingness to do damage to everyone between him and her.

I knew the moment I heard the tone of his voice that he was dangerous. We don't always get that kind of warning, but I did.

I dropped down out of sight, behind a cement barrier -- because I didn't know what weapons he might have -- and called 911. I wasn't his target, the cafe was small, and other people were confronting him, so that was clearly my job -- to make sure someone called for backup.

And backup was exactly what it was, because despite being in-city, by the time the cops arrived, some 10 minutes later, the man in the baseball cap and blue hoodie yelling threats at everyone including a pretty dark-haired woman he didn't know -- and then picking up a table and slamming it against the door that had been closed against him -- was long gone.

So I stand corrected: he did have a weapon. A table. He had been pushed outside, the door shut against him, and he picked up a table and slammed it against the glass door until it broke. Yelling, screaming, but unable to get back in, he finally left.

I found out later that the woman who was the target of this assault had just come in. He'd started yelling at her on the sidewalk up the block, out of the blue. She'd run into the cafe for sanctuary. He followed, yelling, threatening. Swinging fists and elbows.

She didn't know him. Had never seen him before in her life.

If he'd had a gun, or a knife, I am sure he would have used it. He didn't, so the woman was scared, shaken, but physically whole.

I've practiced these types of scenarios across the years. Today I saw that my training actually works; I knew what to look for, what to listen for. I knew what to do and how to do it.

More importantly, I knew what he could do, and what I could do in response.

I don't want to talk about weapons, or how to control them. I don't want to talk about mental illness, or violence. These are topics in heated discussion today.

Today I just want to say this:

Violence can be fast, unpredictable, and senseless. Sometimes, no matter what you do, no matter how fast or strong or prepared you are, all that stands between you and being the target of that violence is luck.

Today I was lucky.

A Reader Reports Back

I met Mary last year. She immediately struck me as intelligent and thoughtful. I mentioned my book The Seer to her, and that it would be coming out this year.

A bit like Game of Thrones, I told her.

"I don't know, then," she said, doubtfully, glancing down at her four-year-old, holding her hand as the girl fidgeted. "I got through the first two books and the story is good, but way too violent. It was making me paranoid. I love to read, but that..." she shook her head. "I had to stop. It was too much."

At that point I was finishing up the final draft of Seer. I had been wondering if the story's harsher parts were hitting the right note. It was important to me that the rough sections weren't gratuitously violent.

I asked her if she would tell me what she thought of it, if she read it. "Even if you don't finish it," I said, "That's fine. I just want to know what you think. You, especially."

"Sure," she said.

Since Seer's launch a month and a half ago, I've heard from some readers who found the book darker and rougher than they expected. When someone writes that they found the story too violent, or that they were negatively triggered by it, I think about it. I take such comments to heart.

Because I don't write for the spectacle of gore. I write for story and characters. For a plot that matters. For the ring of truth.

Today I saw Mary for the first time in months. When she came up to me and said, "I finished it!" I had some trepidation about what she would say next.

She smiled hugely. "I loved it," she said. "So much. It was great!"

For a moment I just let that sink in. Author food, every word.

And the violence, I asked?

"It was fine. It was there, sure -- that's the world -- but it wasn't... for show. You didn't dwell on it.  It was appropriate to the story."

She went on, listing the many things she liked.

"The ending," she said. "I loved how you wrapped things up, without being depressing, like so many books. There was hope. A lot of it."

Yes.

When a reader understands my story, I feel a soaring joy, a deep humility. I become keenly aware of the connection I've made with this other human being who has taken taken the time to journey through my world.

"I want the next one!" she added, taking her daughter by the hand.

This. This is why I write.