Growing up in middle class suburbia, my first writing haven was our backyard fort. I spent hours there scribbling my heart out on lined pencil tablets, making up stories about brave children who ran away from cruel parents, children much braver than I.
Through a lifetime’s journey away from the devastation of my childhood, I’ve had to learn all over again what once came naturally to me as a young child: telling the truth. This has become my life’s quest, to speak and write the truth wherever I can, and by whatever means I can in honor of my younger, abused self, and in honor of children everywhere who suffer in silence.
When the need to tell my own truth collides with my desire to bury it, I remind myself of this little saying:
“It’s impossible,” said pride.
“It’s risky,” said experience.
“It’s pointless,” said reason.
“Give it a try,” whispered the heart.
So then: I’ve written short stories, poetry, and am now working on a novel and my childhood memoir. Whether or not my words will mean anything to anyone else, they help ground me in the present day and assure me that my life is worth fighting for.
Thanks to everyone taking the time to leave a comment, whether it’s positive or negative. I can always learn something from the feedback of others.
I’m so excited to announce the publication of my book of poetry, Brightwood Street Chronicles.
I wrote my first stories in my suburban backyard fort, my haven from the madness of my family’s dysfunctions. This collection of poetry covers my years of sexual abuse as a redheaded-stepchild. I wanted to express the horror and sadness of such abuse for myself and on behalf of abused children who don’t have a voice.
For those who are recovering from such abuse or know someone who is fumbling through its aftermath, this collection of poetry is a must read.