The Little People

 

There are times when I really struggle with my book.


Of course it's self indulgent to even say something like this, and it is ASKING for howls of derision from the cynical and the loveless.

But in a way, I have to indulge myself by saying it- because writing is one of the most solitary affairs known to mankind.

There is no one else here to bitch at about it.

& no way to do it in any effective, productive way.

That's just the way it is. 


I tell it...

Then in due course, you read it.


So much stuff, hundreds of pages of it that simply refuses to be readily organised into any kind of sensible order. 

Sometimes I wonder if I am not doing battle with it because that is ALL I have EVER done with it.

With everything.


Am I in love with the struggle?

The never-ending conflict?

Will it NEVER be finished?


All questions I'm sure writers ask of themselves in order to defer the process of actually doing the writing.



But I have my little inspirations to prop me up along the way. 

This was said of my hero, Dr. James Orbinski, of medisin sans frontiers, who worked in many war torn parts of the world. Rwanda, Uganda, etc, of his attempts to write a book about his traumatic experiences…

 

"I think he’s working with dilemmas that are real, I think he’s dealing with contradictions that are very profound, he’s trying to encapsulate some ideas that no one has…

 

& I think he needs to find a synthesis of all these ideas, he needs to find a larger look at them as it were…

By writing…you simplify the complexity of the world around you…it’s just what the exercise is all about, and I think that he’s finding that it’s not easy, because the complexity is almost intractable, it’s almost overwhelming…”

I understand this so well. 

& it gives me some hope, sure. 


But I'll tell you what gives me even more inspiration. 


Me. 

Little me. 

 
 
This is little me.


A question I ask in the book, is...

'would you beat this little boy'??


Would you?

And yet I was beaten.

& I never quite got over it- which is why I am writing the book.  

It's the only way left I can think of- & I have tried a bunch of stuff-to come to terms with what happened. 


I'll try anything. 

Everything. 

 
Would I beat this little boy?

I would not.



And yet, in a way, I do.

Every day. 

Punishing myself for not being able to write this book quickly and efficiently.


How long have I been working on it now?

TOO long.

I know that.


But beating myself up over it isn't going to help.


I think part of the process is learning to give ourselves permission to tell the story.


I think we all have to. 

The abused and disaffected. 

We have to find a way to tell it that we can take pride in.

That we can be protective of.  


Because believe you me...

there will be assholes and cunts lined up around the block ready to give you shit for even daring to talk about your abuse.


Like it is something they don't want to hear.

& you should keep it to yourself.


FUCK THEM.


If you feel a burning desire to tell your story?

You tell it. 

DO IT.

If not for you...

Then do it for little you. 

If this little boy came to you a story of trauma and torture, would you turn him away?


If you are reading this...

I doubt you would.


Picture yourself as a child...

In fact, grab a photo of little you if you have one, and study it.


Look into the child's eyes. 

Your eyes. 


Those are YOUR eyes, dammit.


If that child has a story he/she wants to tell?

You owe it to that child to do everything in your power to listen.


When I doubt myself...

Doubt the validity of my story...


I look into the child's eyes. 


This is for him. 



We NEED to set the children free...