I've been wrestling with the question of whether or not I should rewrite my book.
Last year I did all the foundation work: researching, re-reading journals, outlining and then a 75,000 word rough draft.
But something wasn't right. I put the book aside last December.
I wonder now if my approach was all wrong. Was it too much story and not enough editorial? Was I fettered by fear?
The strange part is that when writing about the things I experienced, I began to notice that I was replacing my remembered memories with written ones. The very act of telling the story was changing how I remembered the experiences.
It was like a memory overwrite. This cast a tremendous shadow of self-doubt on my ability to tell my story.
However, the good part about writing it was that I began to remember salient details. I was reminded of events and little interactions. I had kept very detailed journals, scraps of letters, notecards, ephemera. These all aided my writing.
But I guess my biggest concern is my inability to tell the story without anger. Eight years later I still feel very angry. And that tone comes across in my writing.
The last thing I want to do is write a book-length rant. Frankly, it just seems immature. I would really like equanimity, serenity and to write this book from a place of perspective.
I'm not sure I can do that yet. The pain is still too real.
Can I write the book with humility and grace or will it be one long diatribe against the abusive nature of extremist fundamentalism? As much as I believe these abusive groups must be exposed, I really don't want to return evil for evil.
Does that make sense?
I have experienced much healing but I've also realized that recovery is a life-long journey. The story is still unfolding. I'm still healing. And I have to re-commit to it every day.
I'm also concerned that I've allowed a root of bitterness to seep into my soul. I used to promise myself that I wasn't going to be one of those people who fanned the flames of resentment by constantly stewing in their hurt. I was going to build a new life for myself. I was going to be different.
Sometimes, that seems like an elusive fantasy. Who I will become is intimately entwined with who I am and who I was and what happened to me during my formative years. And this makes me frustrated. I want to RISE ABOVE my past. I don't want to be defined by it. Sometimes, this seems impossible.
A couple of months ago I asked one of my friends why I still struggle so deeply with certain remnants of my past.
"Because it happened when you were a child," she answered, simply. "It was all you knew. It was your whole world. For you, it was very real and there was nothing outside your experience to measure it against."
I tend to forget that. I would like to pretend it wasn't my whole world.
So, what if I never RISE ABOVE? Oh, no! What if I'm 50 and still battling depression, anxiety, all-or-nothing thinking? What if I'm still having nightmares about being left behind at the rapture?
Ugh.
Lastly, I'm concerned that I won't do justice to the good things that happened in my childhood. It wasn't all fear and trembling. There were some very positive, beautiful, lovely experiences. In the middle of all of it, I was loved and found love. How do I lend weight to those experiences without having them sullied by the overarching legalistic framework?
Then again, maybe I'm just over-thinking this whole thing. Maybe I'm just throwing out all these excuses as a form of procrastination? Or avoidance?
Maybe I need to quit trying to be Shakespeare and just be Elizabeth Esther: one part love, two parts snark.
After all, that's what I do best.
What do you think? Should I start rewriting the book?
Should I just move on?
Am I over-thinking this?


