I used to read a lot of Orson Scott Card. I think he's a wonderful writer, and I've always appreciated the quality and craft of his stories, even when the violence was past my tolerance level.

In the book Folk of the Fringe was one story within a story, in which a mother locks her two youngest children into a walk-in closet and leaves them there. The narrator is the next-oldest child, made responsible for bringing them food and removing their wastes, year after year. His story is told in full sensory detail, the mundane and the horrifying side by side. And somewhere is a note that it was based on a real case.

I've rarely been so disturbed in all my life as I was by that story; I could hardly sleep for days after I read it. My mind churned through it over and over, and the images wouldn't leave me alone. Was this a power the author sought? I don't know. But I was angry with him, angry at having such ghastly and insistent images inserted into my brain.

The fact that such things actually happen made the visions even worse. Graphic depictions of real-life horrors are sometimes necessary in order to motivate people to take action against them. But in those cases the audience has some warning. There was no warning here, and I resented it.

It never occurred to me that my words could be as powerful as Card's. Or have similar impacts. Did he know what the impact would be? I'll never know. Perhaps, in retrospect, I shouldn't have blamed him.