I write to survive the shipwreck of my childhood, holding on a piece of debris, adrift in the dark, deep ocean that is my mind.
I write to understand the shifting world around me, throwing me off balance, taking away my sanity along with the cardboard boxes in the moving truck.
I write to give permanence to the faces that come and go in this series of arrivals and farewells that my life has become.
When delusions and anxiety take hold of me, threatening my integrity, I sit at my desk writing for hours.
When I have too much energy to hold inside my body, I let it run through my fingers onto the keyboard and brighten me up with the power of creativity, the fragmented characters I create, invariably reflecting my impossible life.
When the sun seems to go away and leave me in darkness with destructive thoughts, I write to save my life.
I write, and for purpose, I have opened several files in my computer.
If the thoughts are delusional in the form of farfetched stories, I type them and save the story under fiction.
If the thoughts are incoherent, or represent isolated images that evoke strong emotions, I type them and file them under poetry.
If the thoughts are cathartic, I write a journal entry.
A few years ago, I opened yet another file for my musings, what I have learned through this experience, about letting go of the pain of my formative years and of the hand of the dying friend who rescued me from my demons. I called that file memoir.
Today, I am happy to announce that my debut memoir, “I Asked the Blue Heron” will hit bookstores in the fall this year.
I am looking forward to this great experience hoping my readers will love the book as much as I do.
