What a strange road this book writing takes me down.  Some part of me seems always to be watching me, asking, “What moves you to do this?”

I won’t be done until I am done.  There IS something inside of me that moves me to keep at this writing as if there are words all lined up inside of me waiting to be put into place, in order, a process of discovery I actually DETEST.  I don’t want to know this story.  At the same time I feel remote as if this story has nothing to do with me.  I am the carrier of this story.

I hope that once the last word has been written that somehow I will be born anew.  This is a kind of surgery, as I find a place for everything I remember and for everything I know about myself and my mother.  I cannot predict — ever — what will be written when along the way.  I cannot look ahead or I will lose my place — my exact place — where every word I write for this book appears exactly (so it seems) where it belongs.

Maybe a part of me demands the impossible, wants to know what good might these books bring into the life — of whom?  I cannot tell.  I do not know.  On some level it seems I am creating some kind of a template about a nightmare that only seems so dark because I have not yet placed my own SELF into the story.  What parts of what I will say, am saying, will resonate with someone else?

I cannot pay attention to my wandering thoughts.  This is a “nose to the grindstone” kind of job if ever there was one.  I hear a voice within telling me, “You write this book because you have EARNED the right to!”

I wasn’t aware as such a traumatized child that I was earning the right to anything.  But this is a “more will be revealed” kind of job.  I will only know what I have to say as I say it.  I will know what I said when I am done.

Or will I?

I have the strange sensation that even though I can involve myself for an entire day writing a chapter, like the one I wrote yesterday (last post), and at the end my self and my mind move forward in such a way that it doesn’t matter to me one bit what I wrote.  I just wrote what I had to write, and it all really has nothing to do with me.

Pieces of some distant puzzle, a picture that lives inside of me.  I write because I want to be free of the story.  If I finish this writing, publish it — will I give it away then so that it is gone?  How trivial it all seems to me sometimes in light of the fact that there are billions and billions of stories “out there.”  Why would mine be of import?

Am I OK with not knowing my own future?  I cannot predict or determine what happens with these books.  This all is tied to my deepest need.  I just NEED to do this work.  This is a patient work.  Not rushing ahead.  Not taking shortcuts.  Not short changing the bigger story.  Not leaving anything out.  Putting all the pieces of a broken trauma story together for the first time in my life.

Knowing somewhere up north the Pussy Willows will soon open, such a delight to the tips of the fingers of a little girl.  Soft upon the cheek.  Miracles.


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