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.

Showing vs. Telling

Something I learned over the course of the past few years writing this book is how important it is show the reader what happened rather than tell them what happened... For example, instead of writing, "Mr. Johnson was a cruel man," the author ought to show the reader, through dialogue, circumstance, and situations, Mr. Johnson's character without resorting to topic sentence style summaries which gives the reader nothing more than an adjective or a label to go off of. The goal is to create a reaction; it's to dig it's way into someone's heart and get them to feel something for the character.

My struggle with this book has always been doing that very thing. When I don't want to face writing a particular memory or describing a certain situation (the majority of the book) I distance myself from the material. To get it over with as quickly as possible, I tell a summary of the event without emotionally involving myself and the result is a relatively eloquent piece lacking in grit and true feeling. Today I was reading over the last portion of writing I've added to my manuscript and I got so frustrated as I realized how much telling I've been doing lately. I'm working on the events that were taking place towards the end of 2006 and it's blatantly clear by the style of writing I automatically fall into how much I don't want to be writing about that time and those memories.

It's my struggle and my own private battle that I wrestle over daily, even if I don't write, even if I do nothing but open the manuscript and stare blankly at the computer screen. It's always there. And only by turning to the Lord and asking for help do I find relief.

Removed: What They Don't Show You

I saw this video on Youtube a couple of weeks ago.

It's called ReMoved, and it was supposedly created for the purpose of bringing awareness to training up loving and caring foster parents. A good motive, I guess, and I found it extremely well-made, moving, and upsetting... perhaps more than the average viewer, because I lived through this... but what seems so much more prevalent is the flawed concept of the removal itself. It wasn't with the foster parents that the issue lied, but with the unnecessary and traumatizing separation of the brother and sister. The downward spiral of her emotions, her sanity, her behavior, was a result of the constant mistreatment and rejection she was made to suffer. The re-locations. The all-consuming worry over the sibling she was separated from because she knew he was scared and she knew he needed her and she just wanted to tell him that it would be okay.

Although so much of this short film was nauseatingly accurate in its description of the mental state of a child forced through this unnatural procedure, I found myself wishing that someone would make a short film (any kind of film) depicting a child (or children) who were removed for no reason at all... who didn't have abusive parents, who didn't come from a broken home. Who were taken on the grounds of mere suspicion alone. Like my family. Because perhaps you watch this and you think "oh, but her father was abusive... oh, but it was for her own good..." What would you say if she was taken for no good reason whatsoever? What would you say if she was made to undergo this mental torment, this traumatizing upheaval of her life, of everything she held dear, for the sake of satisfying an intrusive agency's suspicion? It wouldn't make any sense. It would make it so much worse, because there'd be no explanation. No reason for this useless pain.

It didn't make any sense to me either. I come from a home filled with laughter. With love. With a mother who read me to sleep every night and a father who taught me how to pray. The foster homes and institutions we went through were filled with strangers, with loud, screaming children, with the sounds of a foreign language, with tears and bewilderment and loneliness and confusion. How does one tell the world of that pain, and expect them to empathize?

How could you ever understand where I come from? The little girl wonders.

How could you? I wonder, too.

Past and Present

These past two weeks have been like having an up close and personal revisit from the past. After several years of gradually growing immune to the sound of police sirens, of learning not to flinch when someone calls from the gate outside, of training myself to revisit old memories, old fears, without breaking down and shutting off, it feels like I'm starting all over again. And how can I write when I feel this way? How can I write about the past, as if it's safely nestled in a healed corner of my heart, a mere experience to look back upon without the adjoining fear to accompany it, when it feels like it isn't past anymore - when it feels all too painfully present?

I open up the manuscript file on my computer and I stare unseeingly at the screen. It's so overwhelming. You'd think after all these years I would have grown used to it, facing the seemingly insurmountable mountain of expressing so much with so little time, of putting down feelings and pains and wounds that I've hardly begun to unravel and take apart in my own heart and mind. How am I to share that jumbled mess with the world, and expect them to make sense of it all when I can't even do that?

I still go back to the beginning of my manuscript to write more about my childhood. I don't remember it very well anymore, and it feels almost like another lifetime, a different era. It's easier for me to face those faded but happy memories, to struggle over expressing them than it is to face the actual bulk of the book, which is everything that happened to us from the year 2004 and on. That's the most important part and I mentally shy away from even reading it over. It all seems impossible sometimes. How could I finish writing a book that I don't want to even think about looking at? But I know it's not - "with God, all things are possible" - and it's through His grace alone that I've persisted this long. He will help me. I'll face today by His strength and I'll face the past by His strength. Alone, I would have given up long ago.

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.