Cracked Open

I had my piece “workshopped” today. That means that yesterday, the other 12 people in my group read the first two chapters of my book. (13, if you count the facilitator who, in our case was Leslie Daniels, an agent-turned-author). Then today they talked about it. I brought bagels for the group, which proved to be a nice distraction; I found I was so preoccupied about the presentation of the bagels, I forgot to be nervous about the group’s feedback.

Different moderators do different things. On Tuesday Dagoberto Gilb guided the discussion by introducing themes and asking questions. Yesterday Jason Roberts spent the first half hour talking about craft. Today we did a “whip,” as it is called, where we go around the room and each person discusses the piece. The moderator goes last. Usually the author gets a chance to speak at the end, but Leslie Daniels preferred that the author remain silent. Her rationale is that it is practically impossible for the author to respond without sounding like she is reacting. The author does not have to defend herself.

However, in the middle of the discussion for my piece, I had to interrupt. Because I was bawling and I wanted people to understand why.

First of all, it still makes me feel really sad to think about how tiny and fragile the boys were. And to know where we are today—the boys are happy and healthy and the only thing they have to show for their experience is a swooping scar and some funny-looking teeth—is like the memory of walking on a tightrope. No, we didn’t fall, but we came so close, the relief is overwhelming.

But really, I was crying because I realized why people are saying that they don’t understand what story I am trying to tell—it’s because that story is a lie.

Some people turn to religion in times of trouble. Others to alcohol or drugs. We all have defense mechanisms. Mine was cognitive science. But be it God, booze, or semantic frames (that might be a good title), nothing takes away the pain. All along I thought I had found a way to deal with the pain, when really I just found a way to survive in spite of it, a way not be debilitated by it. But I didn’t escape the pain. That pain, that sorrow, that grief is still very present 18 months later. I feel it when I watch the boys sleeping or when I go to the hospital for meetings. Or when I listen to people talk about the first two chapters of my book.

And that’s ok! That’s real. That’s life. That’s my story. It doesn’t mean that I failed. It means that I’m human. And it means that I have to write a different story. Because when you don’t write the truth, people say things like, “I don’t know who your audience is.”

The moral of the story is that I got what I came here for. Before I knew the story I was trying to tell. Now I know the story I want to tell.

It’s such a miraculous understanding of myself that all I can do is cry.