2015 + Reflections of an (Aspiring) Author

I finished the book.

It's so weird and awesome to say that. I finished it. It's taken me several years (6.5 to be exact). I started writing it just before turning fourteen. Maybe it wouldn't have taken me so long if I didn't need to learn so much, if I had already had within me all the experience and skill that years of writing brings, if life hadn't gotten in the way multiple times, and if I had had a fully-functioning computer from the start to it's finish. (As it happens, I'm still bumming off of my sister's fully-functioning laptop, ha di ha.) It's something I have worked towards for so long. How can it be finished?! Gahh. 

And it’s only ever been real in my head. That's the weird part. Friends have drifted in and out of our lives for as long as I can remember and I've never spoken about my book, not unless asked (my father would make a great agent: he tells everybody and anybody!). Even speaking about it amongst the family is something I've shied away from: the subject (and all the memories it brings with it) is a sure way to shut down their faces and bring that certain look of silent torment to their eyes. I have avoided it at all costs. Did I have their full support and the constant assertion that if I ever needed help it was mine? Absolutely. But writing this book was still lonely. While life went on and we taught ourselves to forget, I went back. Over and over again. I went back while we struggled to make ends meet with no income, living off coupons and our friends' charity. I went back while we welcomed two more babies into the family. I went back while the owner of our old house brought us to court and marshals stalked our gate and the electricity got turned off (...and stayed off). I went back while we moved into the apartment of a friend and hunkered down for three years of cramped living while looking for a new home. It became a silent world within my head inhabited only by me, something I couldn't share with anyone else... no one but God. 

He was patient with me. Whenever I would hit a rough patch and stumble into a memory I wasn't prepared to face, I would pull a Jonah and run to the land where procrastination thrives: the Internet. I would remain there for several weeks and then come crawling back, stricken with guilt. I was plagued with a sense of inferiority: how could I write a book? Having grown up an avid reader, books were something I was only too familiar with... I read anything I could get my hands on: Austen, Dickens, Alcott, Bronte. As a teenager, my horizons broadened: E.M. Forster, John Steinbeck, Salman Rushdie, Irving Stone. My standards were high; my expectations even higher. I didn't want to just tell our story - I wanted to write something epic, something revolutionary, something life-changing. Something that would climb its way into its reader's heart and stay there. I wrote and rewrote the manuscript multiple times. It was never good enough; it could always be better. I wrestled with my sense of duty: why was I doing this? Was there a point to all this private torture? Would it do any good? 

Towards the end, the real thing that kept me going was digging deep into the nitty-gritty details of what Matthew suffered and realizing all over again the absolute anguish that his last five months of life contained. Don't I owe it to him, to tell his story? Isn't it the least I could do? To make sure that people don't forget, to make sure that his name and his existence doesn't get swallowed up by time? 

This year is going to bring so much change, I can feel it already. It's daunting, but I'm praying that God gives me strength to face it. Last year was a tidal wave of craziness: I realize, reading over my old posts, that if an absolute stranger were to look at my blog, they would have no idea what I was going on about. I was purposefully vague, and in no position to be starting a blog... but maybe its a blessing in disguise, because there's the evidence of the turmoil we were experiencing. My next blog post will hopefully clear up a few things in that department.

I realize that this is turning into the never-ending blog so I'll sign off... I'm really going to dedicate myself to this thing (even though I haven't exactly told anyone I've started a blog... eh) and hopefully, it'll actually be something people enjoy reading! 

My Prayer

In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust: let me never be put to confusion.
Deliver me in thy righteousness, and cause me to escape: incline thine ear unto me, and save me.
Be thou my strong habitation, whereunto I may continually resort: thou hast given commandment to save me, for thou art my rock and my fortress.
Deliver me, O my God, out of the hand of the wicked, out of the hand of the unrighteous and cruel man.
For thou art my hope, O Lord God: thou art my trust from my youth.

Psalm 71:1-5

It seems like every time I close my eyes I can see flashing blue lights and police cars. In a crowded room filled with chatter, I imagine I can hear sirens. It's all tricks of the mind and tactics of the enemy; if I rebuke it, it goes away. Even so, I know I must put all my trust in the Lord and not give into fear... Perhaps this is all meant to heal us. Perhaps these little tastes, these little flashbacks of our sufferings, are sent with the design of tearing down the monuments of fear it created in our minds. I have to find it within me to rise above whatever might come against us and put all my trust in the Almighty God, believing that He will save us. He won't let the enemy prevail against us. And while I wait for His salvation, I must muster the courage to return to my writing... it sits neglected and I think of it throughout the day, as I go about life, knowing it has to be worked on, knowing it has to be finished. It's all a struggle. It's all pain. What's one pain compared to another? Even amidst the apostles' sufferings they managed to write the New Testament... I can't let myself abandon the mission, not when its so important that its finished.

Wartime

These days are troublesome and long. Too quiet, too loud. Just beyond the doors, it seems a host of enemies lie in wait to ambush us. We sit and wait for God to come to our rescue. He is our only hope.

I long for the simple things. Like curling up on the living room floor, a pillow under-head, surrounded by my siblings as we watch a movie. Or listening to them sing. Reading a book. Playing a game. No enemies, no battles, no war. I try to be grateful for the past three years of peace and rest. Here in this house, there have been no bad memories... Not until a couple of weeks ago. No one knew where we lived. The children got older and formed a choir and it was as if God gave them the voices of angels. We got off food stamps; for the first time since before everything happened, finances ceased to be an issue for us.  I kept on writing. It seemed like we'd left behind forever the old pains and worries. It was only three weeks ago that we talked about moving to a beautiful new house on a mountain with land to plant on and hills to climb and places for the kids to camp out and build tents. Things have been moving quickly upward and forward. Now it feels as if everything is frozen; as if we took several paces backwards and now we're stalled, waiting for the rain to stop, the storm to pass.

I know this is the life God has chosen for us. The last days of the world draw near and all these trials we face and things we suffer will prepare us for those times. I don't know if our future involves raising chickens and singing around campfires. Perhaps it will for a season. But right now, its battle time and it hurts. It's hard. My mind plays tricks on me and I imagine that I can hear sirens. Feet thumping, doors slamming, voices calling. I dream at night of darkness and social workers and hiding.

I force myself to work on the book because this island and all the people on it need to know the truth. There's so much that they don't know, so many lies circulated about us that aren't true. If it all comes out and people see what was done to us and why we are the way that we are... maybe things could be different. They'll all leave us alone. They won't say such horrible things about us. We can be happy and safe and serve God and watch the little ones grow up. That's all I want out of this life. To know that God is my Father in Heaven and one day, I and my family will go to be with Him... and until that day comes, to live out this life together, unperturbed by society and its demands for conformation.

INTRODUCING Mere Suspicion: Writing the Story

I created this blog for the purpose of documenting my journey of writing my autobiography/memoir titled MERE SUSPICION. It's a book dedicated to describing what was the most painful, overwhelming time of my family's life. I started it in 2009 and I hope to finish it this year, God willing. By posting daily blogs, I'll be sharing my trials and triumphs throughout the phases of writing, editing, revising, translating and ultimately, publishing Mere Suspicion.