I feel compelled to write again: About the fact that the peeling away of the layers of us – all that might have served (artificial?) purposes – the ‘we must do such and such in order to ‘be a successful part of it” – is nothing short of a double edged sword.

It feels, at once, like an exciting unfolding of something new and real and original and innocent – like a return to that which we loved and were before the conditioning algorithms of ‘this is what you should be in order to be liked, worthy, successful, etc’ – but it also feels like … it’s as if the ‘knowing yourself’ thing goes hand in hand with a willful self-exclusion from everything comfortable, familiar, and reliably ‘safe’ … that one is imposing the suffering and exclusion that comes with ‘separating oneself from one’s programmed identity’, and therefore, responsible for all that follows (even if it’s something as simple as choosing not to be a part of social media … or something as complex as choosing to believe that one can heal all dis-ease within oneself, by having the courage to continually understand that one’s adopted and learned identifying parameters are NOT the definitive be all, end all of who one truly is.)

Regarding everything from how to meditate, how to eat, how to live, how to be successful, how to be happy, to social media, and regarding the possibility that we can take responsibility for ourselves, instead of existing in a kind of ‘someone else will do it; someone else must validate/see me’ mentality, the choice to not accept the parameters of impossible expectations – to be ourselves, but ‘not that way’ – ironically, brings out True Exposure of Self.

The irony has a metallic taste, and it can make us feel as if we are being pitted against ourselves. Blame, shame, game; what’s your name?

In a world obsessed with definitions and titles and appearances, who are we? Who are we when no one’s watching?

When we choose to know ourselves, truly and with stoicism, persistence, gratitude and confidence, the old conditioning fights harder to win us over. It’s voice becomes louder and more insistent: That we can’t ‘win’ at life if we choose not to ‘play’ within the impossible parameters established for us. And what kind of regular person would have the audacity to think their way of being is better than ‘the norm/popular/established way’?

Who are we when no one is watching?

What ambiguity lives in the mystery. What strength we must summon to stand up to the lies of convenience.

In short, it’s not all flowers and sunshine. Which is why I am going to go outside and absorb the flowers and sunshine prior to writing more.

Because this process … it requires a kind of confidence and fortitude which I admit, does not come easily to me. And I feel the need to apologize if I have ever made it seem as if it’s as easy as hitting an easy button.

I take comfort in having sounding boards and support. Thank you to those who feel me.

I also take comfort in the natural things because they are like I wish to be, underneath this ineffable, flowering process. They just are. They don’t even have the ability to need or ask to be anything other than what they are. The sun doesn’t care if we choose to feel its warmth on our skin, and the flowers don’t care if we see their beauty or taste their lovely aromas. To even personify such things with qualities we humans cling to .. it puts things into perspective. And as the layers peel off, we need that. Like air. Because this process .. it’s one of the most difficult things to put into words, because it’s the same and different for every single one of us.

It’s lonely bloomin’ into an only human.

Doctored Agents of Change, Dr. Strange patience yield; repeat cycle bargaining, to find more truth revealed.

Repeat pattern comforts the habit’s caress, to heal what’s been found in our own only-ness.

One. Life. As a human.

Photo Credit

Photo courtesy of Mary Rose  – All Rights Reserved

I spent the whole day going through the thesaurus, looking up new and creative substitutions for those two words. I compiled a list and was adamant about increasing my vocabulary.

Super: wonderful, great, fantastic, marvelous, fabulous
Supper: dinner, tea, evening meal

Sitting down at my computer, I was resolute in never misspelling those words again. I wrote them over and over until the writer’s remorse I was feeling ended. Looking at the books on my desk that had ‘by Melinda Cochrane’ on them, I realized that I was indeed a writer and had become an author. But the story of me becoming one was not a story I had shared. However, it revisited me every time I made a mistake in anything in my life.

It was a trauma that made me a writer. What that trauma was doesn’t really matter anymore and as a survivor I now find it irrelevant to share the details of it. I find a great deal more peace in saying I was offered something much bigger as a result – my love for words. I remember how, immediately after the event, I sat in my room writing and writing until the pain came out as a perfect fictional story – unlike the real events that took my innocence.

All of the violence led me to a gift, one which has taken me on many winding roads. To this day, if I were to tell anyone what words give me, I could not express it verbally but could express it very well on paper.  

You see, to misspell a word may be a mishap to some but to me, a writer shaped by negative events, it means losing the part of me that gave me hope and continues to do so. Words create life, they reclaim life and yes, they can take back innocence.

So as I sit tonight eating my super supper, I thought perhaps sharing my journey would allow other writers what I have allowed myself – to feel less of a need to correct and more of a need to simply enjoy our multifaceted personalities.

Photo Credits

Photo by Melinda Cochrane – all rights reserved

Later
He returned to our lives
A changed man.
He sobered up
Got back his old job
Built back his old life.

But twenty years later
After he died
I realized
I never knew what happened
When he disappeared.
When he was on the edge
Of killing himself
With the drink.
Rumor had it
That he worked
The wheat harvest
Something he had done
In college.

I started to write
The story of what I thought
Might have happened.
I realized
The piece I was missing
Was what it would be like
To work on
The wheat harvest.

Combines dumping grain on trucks

I said to a friend
“Someday…
Someday,
If I ever want to
Really explore
My Dad’s story.
I might just have to
Work the wheat harvest.
My friend Pat
Listened quietly.

Later he said
“You’ve talked about
Working the wheat harvest
Three or four times.
I just want to mention
Someday – if you want
To work the wheat harvest.
I have relatives in Oklahoma
Who do that each year.”

I did what I do
When hit with
The unexpected.
I sat there
Numbly,
Quietly.
And then said
“Thanks for telling me.”
Talk about upping the ante
On a spiritual quest
To walk in
My Dad’s shoes.
My friend had
Certainly done that.
Now I was left
To put it all out there,
Or leave it as “someday.”

I finally called Pat
And asked if he would
Do me a favor.
Check with his relatives
To see if I might
Join their harvest crew
For the summer.

Meanwhile,
I tried to figure out
If this was
Completely nuts.
Quit my job,
Go off and work
On a harvest crew
To find out about
My Dad’s story.
I checked it out
With Scott – a good friend
Who was really grounded.
He’d give me a solid answer,
Besides, he was
An accountant.
Logical, linear.
I later realized
I was secretly hoping
He’d tell me
“This idea is crazy”
So I could give up
The whole thing.
Instead he said
“Makes a lot of sense
I think you ought to do it!
It will be part of
Your healing.”
Major gulp!

Two months later,
I was living in a trailer
In Lone Wolf Oklahoma
With six high school farm kids
Learning to drive a huge truck
Used to haul grain.
And following
My Dad’s story.

Bunk trailers and work pickups

It was the adventure
Of a lifetime.
We followed the wheat
As it ripened.
Living like nomads.
It was a world
I had never seen before.
Living in an old house trailer
In one place for two weeks
Then moving,
Trailers, trucks, combines
A caravan
To the next farm
As the wheat ripened
From Oklahoma
To North Dakota.

Combines and Tractors

I learned many things.
I grew up in the city
But had the heart of a country boy.
I love driving a tractor
Or a wheat combine.
I don’t do well on little sleep.
Living in a trailer,
Farm boys are not
Particularly neat
When Momma’s not there
To clean out the tub.
When pulling wheat from
A plugged up combine
The dust really itches,
When it gets down your neck.

And special things happened.
I got to visit the filmsite
From Dances With Wolves.

Me at Dances With Wolves Filmsite

We saw Mount Rushmore,

My first pic of Mount Rushmore

Both affected me deeply.
All in all
It was a magical summer.

 It gave me the truth
About what I believe
Happened to my Dad.
How he had
A spiritual awakening
And realized
He had to return
To clean up his past.
I finished the story
I wanted to tell.
I wrote it as a novel.

It will be called
“Nothing Left To Lose.”

But as I look back
What Pat said
When the idea
First came up
Turned out to be the truth.
He had said
“Dan, you think you’re going
On the wheat harvest,
To learn about your Dad.
I think this trip
Will be about you.
You will learn about
Yourself.
Heal yourself.
Claim your own power.”

He was right!
I often look back
On the wheat harvest experience
As a turning point in my life.
When I claimed the truth
Of my path
Not to follow the business world
Of my Dad and my friends,
But to claim my birthright,

As a writer
A teller of stories,
And a country boy.
I am completely convinced
I did the right thing
In going on harvest
To walk in Dad’s shoes.

Because I found – myself.

Dan the Writer

Photo Credits:

Photos by Dan L. Hays  © – all rights reserved.

Previously published in Thoughts Along the Road to Healing

After about three weeks, when I hadn’t heard back from him, I sent a followup email. I was puzzled – this didn’t feel very quick. I was in the final stages of self publication, and after a brief break to attend a high school reunion, I was coming closer to the point where I would need to either hold up on self publication, or move forward. I had to make a decision, so I continued forward with self publication, and it appeared my book would be published in early August.

Finally, the first week of August, I got a reply from the literary agent:
“Many thanks for sending me your manuscript Freedom’s Just Another Word. While there is much to admire here, I am not confident that it is something I could place with a publisher in today’s highly competitive market. I hope you find someone who disagrees and wish you the very best of luck with it.”

Honestly, looking back, I think I didn’t let myself feel how disappointed I was about receiving this rejection. I had such a positive feel when I met with the literary agent that this reply surprised me. I was glad that I had continued forward with my plan to self publish. I think the excitement of what happened next covered up any disappointment I might have felt. I got to say those magical words:

“I am a published author.”

Just saying the words almost rendered me speechless. It was just too amazing, too incredible, to realize that I had just been published. I went to Amazon on August 6th and found a listing for Freedom’s Just Another Word. I just sat there and looked at the entry. Then I would get up, go do something else for a while, then come back and look at the listing. It hadn’t changed, but I couldn’t wrap my head around it all the same.

After a while I realized that it was like the first time I had run a marathon. Everyone had talked about how sometimes you got very emotional when you crossed the finish line. It wasn’t like that for me. I was just numb. I walked through the “get your medal and get your picture taken” lines almost like a robot. I couldn’t absorb any more about the experience. It wasn’t like shock – quite. It was more like realizing that the last six months of training had just paid off. I guess part of me up until the very end wondered if I would actually run, and finish.

We had heard about all the obstacles – illness, injury, things like that which caused a lot of people not to finish. But I had finished! I had finished even with my right knee bothering me badly enough three days before the race that I had to go get acupuncture to heal it as best I could. I felt like I could run, but even during the race wasn’t sure if the knee problem would intrude. The knee was fine and never bothered me during the marathon.

With publishing my book, it was not a bothersome knee, but the deep messages by my Grandma that had held me back from publishing two previous book.  She said they’ll call you crazy if you try to become an author.  Then she told me “I can have you committed,” if I tried to write and went crazy.  Finally she showed me what it would be like to be in an asylum – that really locked up my writing. I hadn’t been sure if those old messages would intrude and make me hold back from actually publishing the book. I wasn’t sure until I actually saw the Amazon listing – and then there was the reality of what I had done. I had broken past, I had moved beyond. No wonder I was stunned and numb! The enormity of what I had just accomplished would take a while to sink in.

When I finished the marathon, I became aware a couple of days later (when I could walk up a flight of stairs again) that it would take a while – possibly several months – for me to fully absorb what I had just done. Only after time had passed could I look back with a sense of detachment and take in what the event signified. I sensed it would prove to be the case with publishing my first book. “I am a published author.” That would take a long time to sink in, because of the added element of shaking off the Grandma weight.

This was a line of demarcation – one of the three significant transition points of my life. The first was working the wheat harvest to walk in my Dad’s shoes – to find his story. The second was running my first marathon. Now the third – publishing my first book. All three events had the flavor of a rite of passage. I had crossed a threshold – I returned from harvest a changed man in a very intense way. Crossing the finish line of my first marathon affected me deeply. Now I sensed the same phenomenon with publishing my first book – I was different in a way that might take me months to capture in words.

I intuitively sensed that it was too soon to begin publicity for the book – I needed to absorb first – let everything sink in. As well, I wanted to order a copy of my book from the publisher, Amazon, and Barnes & Noble, to make sure that the distribution component was working correctly, before telling people how they could buy my book. I made no immediate plans to do anything else and spent the month of August letting it all sink in. Later in the month, I sent inscribed and signed copies to several people I wanted to thank for being part of the process. But other than that, I didn’t get active on the publicity phase. I did feel some fear releasing, and spent several nights with my legs shaking with fear. But I believe I was still in the stunned place, and that’s why not much fear released. Besides – I hadn’t publicized the book or told many people about it. It was possible that getting the word out about my book would stir up some old feelings to be released.

“I am a published author.” Wow!

Photo Credits

Crossing The Finish Line ©  Dan Hays. All rights Reserved.

Feature Image – Microsoft Office Clip Art Collection

San Juan Country Club, Farmington New Mexico, the 40th reunion of the Class of 1968 dinner and dance. Dinner had started winding down, and it looked like the band was about to play, so I could listen for a set and leave. During dinner I had been visiting with Betty, a woman I’d gone to junior high with. We had looked through several junior high and high school annuals she had brought with her. We had also looked through the Scholarly Scribbles literary magazine that our class had compiled in the 8th grade. I had discovered that a number of people still had their copies, and like me, thought of that junior high time very fondly.

Dancing at the “Club”

Bobby, the lead singer in the band that was about to play, had told me some of his memories. Our Civics teacher had called us a group of “pretentious pseudo-intellectuals.” We laughed over that, because that’s how we remembered that particular teacher – a pretentious pseudo-intellectual who was very self-impressed. But on the other hand, my friend Sandra, who had talked me into coming to this reunion, said that Mrs. Kerr, our 9th grade English teacher, had told her many years later that our class was one of the most vibrant, intelligent and enjoyable classes she ever taught. I just knew junior high had been an almost magical time for me, and the Scholarly Scribbles literary magazine seemed to capture the essence of that time.

Then Betty and her husband got up to leave – they had to attend his reunion in Aztec. So I was left at the table with two couples I didn’t know, who were talking among themselves. I saw an empty seat at a table next to the dance floor, so I moved over there, asking one of the women if I could sit there. It was Koni, who I had known a bit in junior high. She introduced her friend Maggie, who didn’t go to high school with us, but worked with Koni and Dennis, a local surgeon who was about to play guitar with the band. Maggie had come to support her friend and to see the surgeon play. She said she might want to dance some, but didn’t like country western music. She’d tried it once or twice, and didn’t find it fun.

As we sat listening to the band tune up, a woman walked up to me. She said she was at a table of women who were wondering who I was. “I’m Dan Hays. I went to Ladera Elementary, then Hermosa Junior High, and FHS – but my family moved away in the middle of my junior year.”

She smiled, nodded and said, “Good to know. I’m married, but it’s that table of single women over there who were wanting to know.”

The band started playing and I convinced Maggie to dance a slow song with me. She did, and we had a lot of fun easing around the dance floor. Then they played fast song, and we stayed out there for it. I love fast dancing, and gyrated easily around the floor, with a big grin on my face because I enjoyed it so much. I started to see people watching me from the sidelines – and did I mention I love that kind of attention? Several songs later I had spotted the table of women, and they were suddenly dancing around me and smiling at me. Later I went over and asked one of them to dance, and it turned out it was Ellen, someone I had known since junior high. It was one of those amazing experiences where you escort the woman to the floor and transition from walking to dancing seamlessly. It was enchanting.

Finally, I had to stop and rest for a minute – I was drinking glass after glass of water. Tom, the football star, was walking by, and I introduced myself. He was amazed, and knew exactly who I was. When I had gone back to Farmington in 1984, I had looked him up, and we talked about that visit. Several of his buddies had talked with me at the VFW event on Friday night, and I could see them watching me now, and other people as well. I could feel a lot of attention now focused on me, both because of the dancing, and now I had been visiting with the class popular guy. I loved the whole experience.

Later, as the dance wound down and I slow danced with the woman from junior high – I’d been alternating between dancing with her and Maggie for the past hour, I was once again astonished at how differently this reunion turned out than I had expected. I would look back later and realize that I had healed something from my growing up years, but at the moment, I was just aware that things felt good. During the next fast dance, Tom wanted to fist bump with me out on the dance floor, and while I mentally laughed at the gesture, it also felt good because of the acceptance it signaled.

The next day I headed back to Texas, aware that something special had just happened. I’d been checking my email because I was moving forward with self publication on my book. But, I was also waiting to hear from the literary agent who had wanted to read it. I had two strong directions in place for publication.
But what I really wanted to do was go home, pull out my copy of Scholarly Scribbles, and just read.

Photo Credits

Dancing at the “Club” ©  Dan Hays. All rights Reserved.

Scholarly Scribbles  ©  Dan Hays. All rights Reserved.

6:30 PM. July 5, 2008. I sat in my car outside the San Juan Country Club in Farmington, New Mexico. Inside, the dinner and dance for the 40th reunion of Farmington High School Class of 1968 was about to start. I sat there, just looking at the building – I was about to do something I’d never done in high school. I had a snapshot memory – me and my friend Bobby, sitting in his car outside the high school cafeteria, slumped down in our seats, looking through the window at the after-football-game dance going on inside. We didn’t go in. I never went to a high school dance. I was small for my age and very shy, and spent my high school years on the outside looking in.

In the middle of my junior year, my family moved away, and my life was too turbulent to think about dances. I had never gone to a reunion, not feeling connected with the high school I eventually graduated from. But this year, after exchanging emails with a woman I’d known in Farmington since the fourth grade, I had agreed to come back for this reunion. This was the town I grew up in, where I’d made a lot of friends, and lost touch with all of them over the years.

Now it was time to go inside and my stomach was in knots at the thought. I’d gone to the opening event on Friday night – a happy-hour gathering at the VFW hall, where I had visited with a few people I remembered, and had seen a lot of people I didn’t recognize or barely remembered. The group then moved over to the lounge at the Best Western motel, and I had gone along, visiting some with people before calling it a night. I had started to wonder if this whole thing was a mistake.

I was going to the Saturday night event because I’d paid for it, and a couple of guys I had known since junior high had re-gathered their band and were playing for the dance. They had started the band after I moved away, so I’d never seen them play. I decided to go for the dinner, listen to the guys play a couple of sets, and then leave. I checked my email once more from my cell phone. I had been answering messages about getting my book set up to be self published. I was also waiting to hear from a literary agent who was reading my manuscript, and might be interested in representing it. I was checking email often. There was finally no more reason to stall, so I gathered my courage, got out of the car, and went inside.

When I walked inside the country club, the whole interior looked different. I guess a remodel after 40 years was to be expected. I had grown up spending a lot of time at the club, so it had memories attached to it, on the golf course, at the swimming pool, at lunch with my Dad. Now, half of the main ballroom was filled with tables, white tablecloths, and fancy silverware.

On the other side of the room was a sizable dance floor, and against the far wall, in front of a bank of windows overlooking the golf course, a band was setting up. I got a name tag – they had everyone’s high school picture on them, so we could all recognize each other. I was on time and, being used to events where everyone was “fashionably late,” I was surprised at how crowded the room was, with a steady hum of chatter. People were already starting to fill plates from the buffet, so when I spotted Betty, who had lived next door to me in junior high, I moved over to visit with she and her husband. There was an empty place at their table, so I sat next to them for dinner. Betty had brought several yearbooks and we looked through those as we visited. Yes, the homecoming queen our senior year was who I thought it would be.

Then we began talking about our time at Hermosa Junior High. I was surprised to discover that Betty had also kept her copy of Scholarly Scribbles, the literary magazine we compiled in our 8th-grade English class. I was to find four different people who still had their copy. I had published five poems and a short story in that magazine. Shortly after that, I had stopped writing altogether. I was later to find out it was because my Dad had shamed my poetry, and shut down my creativity. So it was surprising to find that the magazine had a strong impact on others as well.

As the band was testing equipment, I walked out onto the dance floor to talk with Bobby, the lead singer. I had a feeling that would be the only time I’d be on the dance floor that night. We talked about the popular girl who had disappeared — she had become pregnant and we’d never known about it. We laughed because we suspected we knew who got her pregnant. We compared notes, and remembered that each day during lunch in junior high we had a competition to see who could walk the farthest on their hands.

I saw Tom, Mr. Popular in high school, and the star football player, come in with his wife, causing quite a commotion from all the attention he attracted. I was sure Tom might not recognize me now – I had been quite a bit smaller back when he knew me. But Tom had lived down the block from me during grade school, and I knew later I’d go up and re-introduce myself. I felt disconnected from much of the group – it appeared they had all stayed in touch and knew about each other’s lives. I was also self-conscious about not having graduated with this group, and having essentially disappeared from school in the middle of my junior year. Back then, Farmington had been an oilfield town, so a lot of people came and went, but I was just feeling like an outsider right now. I knew I would leave this dinner/dance soon.

11 PM. As I whirled around the dance floor to a country and western tune, with a woman I’d had a crush on in junior high snuggled in my arms, it struck me that the dance sure hadn’t turned out like I’d expected.

A Writer Revisits High School Continues In Part Two

Photo Credits

Dan Hays

It was June 2008, and I was in Austin at the Agents and Editors Conference for the second year. I had just walked out of what felt like a perfect pitch session with a literary agent, and he had said those magic words, “I’d like to read your manuscript.”

I walked into the foyer on the second floor of the hotel, turbulent with nervous writers waiting to present their ideas to agents, event staff checking them off lists and leading them into small rooms filled with literary agents at cocktail tables, all wanting to find that marketable manuscript. Things looked different than they had 15 minutes previously. My life had just changed. I ambled in an absent-minded way to the elevator, stunned at what had just happened.

I got off the elevator in the hotel lobby and wandered around for a while, too keyed up to go into a workshop. Later I saw Terri, a writer I’d visited with the previous day. “Have you met with your agent yet?” she asked.

I smiled broadly. “I think I just had the perfect pitch session. It all went brilliantly and he wants to see a copy of my manuscript.” I was amazed just hearing the words.

“Dan, that is excellent! Congratulations. Wow, you’ve had a wonderful weekend. Who was the agent?”

I told her the agent’s name, and the agency he worked for. Terri’s eyes got really big. “Dan, that is one of the most prestigious literary agencies in New York, and he is one of their most active agents. This is a BIG deal!”

I heard her words, but the news was so stupendous that I had trouble absorbing it. I felt my eyes glaze over – it was all too much to take in. How had this all come about?

****

The previous day I had checked in to the hotel, got settled, and went down for a pre-conference workshop offered by a literary agent on “Pitching Your Manuscript.” There were about 50 people in the workshop, and the agent started by giving a brief lecture on doing verbal pitches. Then she asked if anyone wanted to do their pitch and practice it in front of the group. Tentatively someone got up and delivered their pitch, but then people started jumping in, and it was an awesome session. The agent was trying to get people to start with a very short pitch, and gauge the response. I knew I had to do mine.

I raised my hand, walked up, and gave my brief pitch. “My book is entitled Freedom’s Just Another Word. It’s about a time when my life was spinning out of control, and then my Dad died.” She immediately began telling the group about British “misery” literature and I knew I hadn’t portrayed my book correctly. She did respond strongly to the title, even though other people has responded positively to it over the weekend.

After the workshop, I waited around and asked the agent how I could separate my book from “victim literature,” which it was not. She said she thought I might need to start with a positive perspective, and work from there. I thanked her and decided I needed to completely rework my pitch, because what I had been doing so far hadn’t been working. I went back to my hotel room after dinner and began to rework my pitch. I came up with something I thought I was willing to try.

The next morning I went up to the second floor foyer for my first pitch session. I knew that this agent had attended the University of Texas School of Journalism here in Austin. A staff person led me in to a room with about six cocktail tables, occupied by agents in muted conversations with other writers.

I sat down, shook his hand and asked “So how is it being back in Texas?”

He smiled and said, “It’s really nice to be here. My dad is coming in from Corpus Christi, and I have a sister who lives in South Austin.”

I said, “I bet that will be great. I also have a sister in south Austin. This is just a fun town to visit.” He then moved to business, asked me what my book was about, and I began to speak.

“I have written a memoir entitled Freedom’s Just Another Word. It is about a spiritual journey of healing, hope and forgiveness. It is set in Houston, Texas, in 1987. At that time, my life was spinning out of control. It was as if some mysterious force was at work, skewing my world. I was trying to remember something, to put together pieces from my past. I felt like the man in The Bourne Identity, trying to remember something from his past, but seeing only fragments. I was out of work, broke, frozen and unable to look for a new job, almost suicidal, and mystified as to why it was all happening. Then I got the phone call – come home, your father is dying.

I delivered the eulogy at my Dad’s funeral. He was an alcoholic, but he had been sober and in recovery for 20 years. A number of people told me the week he died how much he had positively impacted their lives. He and I had also had a lot of healing over the past several years, so I spoke from a warm and loving place.

But over the next several weeks, as I struggled with his passing, I started finding an ugly, deep anger toward him. It felt disloyal to be feeling that way. I uncovered an old wound that helped me to make sense of my feelings and allowed me to really forgive my father.”

As I was talking, the agent was totally focused, seemed very interested and nodded several times. I stopped speaking and waited anxiously.

He got the title immediately, making a reference to the Janis Joplin song it came from, and said how much he loved it. Then he asked, “So what was the old wound.” I described the violent incident where my Dad had threatened to kill me. He was intrigued. I couldn’t pin it down at the time, but he was so intent on what I was saying, I had the feeling he had found something he’d been looking for, and was very interested.

Our time was almost up, and I mentioned that I was moving forward toward self-publication this summer. He immediately pulled out his card, asked me to send him the manuscript now – he would like to see it before I self-published. He said he could read it very quickly. I agreed to email him a digital copy, we finished, and I left.

There was a lot more that happened that weekend, but it all paled in comparison to that pitch session. I had two more sessions, with one agent being very interested but finally passing, and another referring me to a colleague of his who he thought would be interested. By the positive responses, I knew I was on the right track. At that point, I suspected I might have some feelings to deal with. After all, my manuscript was about to be in the hands of a reputable literary agent — at his request.

Photo Credit

“Approve”  Striatic @ Flickr. Creative Commons. Some Rights Reserved. 

In April 2008, I had remembered an ugly incident from my childhood. It was actually the third part of a week-long series of events that took place the first time I visited Fort Worth when I was eight years old. My grandmother had asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I told her I wanted to be a famous author. She said I didn’t want to do that, and when I asked why, she said, “If you do that, they’ll call you crazy and lock you up.” Later, she told me she had talked to the doctor she worked for and he had assured her that if I went crazy he could have me committed to an asylum.

The third event happened when she showed me what it would be like to be locked up in an asylum. She reinforced the message by shutting me up in a closet with all the lights off and leaving me there for several hours. When I remembered this part of her abuse, it was so terrifying it took my breath away.

It seems dumb to take the very actions that bring up the fearful and terrified feelings. But I knew that was what I had to do. I had to confront those false fears by moving forward toward publication. Doing so would not only get them to the surface, but help me release those fears, and ultimately be free of them.

I had found a Print On Demand publisher that looked like a good fit for me. That publisher had indicated they preferred to have an author with a website. I began setting up a website. Immediately moving toward publication felt like the true direction for me. My original plan to wait until January 2009 to publish my book had felt like postponing and hesitating – like avoiding the fear.

I also realized that I needed to go to the Agents and Editors Conference in Austin again. I signed up to attend, to check traditional publishing before pursuing the option of self-publication. When I went to that conference in 2007 it signaled to me that I was getting serious about publication, and the fears instilled by grandmother started to come to the surface. I signed up for a ten minute pitch session with a literary agent. I sensed I had a stronger presentation to convince an agent to represent my book. Gulp – which would only force the fears to purge more quickly.

I also began getting acupuncture once a week to help release old fears from the things my grandmother had done to me. It worked well, and I continued to release massive amounts of fear very quickly. I was still awake until around three a.m., and had seen a pattern:  if I had acupuncture on Friday, usually the feeling released by Sunday night or so, and I would purge a lot of old fears. I also realized that the last incident with Grandma must have happened on Saturday night, and was the reason for the Saturday night hypervigilance which had plagued me for years.

I knew that I had taken the steps to bring up and release the old feelings buried in my soul by my grandmother – but that was of little comfort late at night. Since the early ‘80s when I had first become serious about writing, and set the goal to publish a book, 11 p.m. signaled the onset of the nightly terrors. I would exercise after work, be suitably tired and ready to go to sleep. But when I laid down, around 11 o’clock, suddenly my eyes would snap wide open. I would be alert to noises around me, my breathing turning short and shallow and my pulse racing.

It was like that tonight. Footsteps on the stairwell outside my apartment, innocent in daytime, suddenly took on an ominous tone. Who was it and were they dangerous? Were they coming to get me? Suddenly I was that eight-year-old child, listening to Grandma tell me  that they could have me committed, locked up in an asylum for a couple of days, just to show me what it would be like. Was this the night? My rational adult mind knew that not to be the case, but the terrified child mind ruled the night, and lived with these fears. I listened until the footsteps faded, a door opened and closed, and the threat passed – for the moment. But I still couldn’t relax, my pulse pounding and my breathing rapid.

As time passed, my fears grew larger, more menacing. A bird trilled outside my apartment and suddenly I was back inside the bedroom at my grandmother’s house, windows wide open to the night, with the lights out, sensing the dangerous closet, fearing the monsters that might still be inside. My legs shook uncontrollably. I knew that was the fear releasing, but it felt horrible at the time. I was powerless to stop anyone who might come to get me.

On one of those nights I remembered channel flipping late at night in the ’70s and running across a scene from One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. It was obviously set inside of an asylum, and I quickly changed the channel. I had never been able to go see that movie. Now the dismal hospital scene with patients moving slowly about haunted my overly active imagination. I knew I’d be up for a couple of more hours just from that visual image. My stomach grew queasy and I felt my muscles tense – ready to run if necessary. Finally daylight came, and the fears subsided for the moment.

On May 27th, the designer finished the final steps and went live with the website. That morning I submitted my manuscript to the publisher I had chosen. The next day, that publisher passed on publishing the manuscript. They answered so quickly I concluded they hadn’t even looked at the manuscript or my website. But they gave me a suggestion for another publisher – Virtual Bookworm, in College Station, Texas. This publisher actually felt like a stronger contact, so to get back on the horse, I submitted the manuscript to them. The next several days the fear came up and purged a lot. During my Friday acupuncture session, I was actually shaking and releasing fear while I was on the table – the first time that had ever happened.

The whole writing project continued to build in momentum, and in very amazing ways. Virtual Bookworm replied in five days and accepted my manuscript for publication. I reformatted the manuscript, went through it several more times, and submitted it to them. Very quickly they came back to me with cover design ideas, and we developed a really nice cover. I had to tweak my biography on the back cover to allow for a picture, and in refining it, I consolidated it, and cleaned it up nicely.

I was moving forward toward publication – confronting the fear that Grandma had instilled in me – in order to overcome and release that fear. Now I wanted to check out traditional publishing — to see if I could interest a literary agent in representing my memoir. It was time to revisit the writer’s conference which had started the healing process in motion.

Photo Credits

“Sleep Deprivation” S.MASH @ Flickr.com. Creative Commons. Some Rights Reserved.

I had just written a powerful inner child exercise and remembered how my grandmother threatened to have me locked up in an asylum, and decided to “show me what it would be like.” For the next several days I lay on my bed with my arms and legs shaking for long periods of time as the fears released. On one level I knew I had just freed a deep trauma from my soul, and the fears that had been stored in my body were breaking loose, but while it was going on – it was horrible. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I was anxious, my heart was racing, and I was terribly sensitive to noises around me. Gradually the feelings subsided, but I was pretty clear that there were more feelings to be released.

In January 1988 I had remembered the violent incident with my Dad which became the focus of Freedom’s Just Another Word, the memoir I was writing. During that time I would regularly lay awake until 3 a.m., unable to sleep and shaking with fear – the violent incident had happened late at night and it was unsafe to relax.

Eventually I realized I wasn’t going to sleep well until the violent incident had worked its way through my body. I took a night job for three years until the release of fears had subsided. That experience gave me trust in the process that if I could just hang on and let the feelings break free, it would have a powerful healing impact. But from that experience, I intuitively sensed that the events with grandma were deep and powerful, and would take some time to work through.

Returning to work during the process of releasing the fear would be difficult. I was faced with the prospect of being awake and in distress until 3 a.m. fairly frequently as the fears released, with no way to control the situation. Trying to work under those conditions would be terribly difficult, and probably unsustainable. I also had a feeling that my original plan to publish the book in January 2009 might be too far in the future. Therefore, it might be time to take a gamble. An option for publishing resurfaced, again to be considered, only with a different time frame.

I could arrange things financially where I would not have to take another contract in the oil business for a while. By doing that I could let the fears purge without trying to maintain a work schedule. I could also go ahead and publish the book without the stress of trying to work after sleepless nights. I wrote that down as Plan B, and put it in an envelope, to be opened a month later. I knew at the moment I was still feeling the effects of the grandmother incident, so I didn’t want to try to make a decision while the fears were releasing. I decided I would discuss the new plan with my friends Karen, Mike and Scott, to see what they thought about it. I prayed for God to show me a sign if I should go in that direction.

The next day, I told Karen about it, and after I went through the whole thought process, she said the plan sounded solid. Mike and Scott agreed when I told them about it. I began to check out the Print On Demand publishers I had found earlier, and reviewed that publishing model in general. I read an article which indicated that the big Print On Demand companies were in the business of selling services to authors, and weren’t necessarily interested in helping an author actually sell books. The article mentioned a small publisher which appeared to be a preferable option.

This smaller publisher used the same distributor as the larger publishers, but didn’t try to sell the additional services. I checked out the company website, and it seemed very credible. The information indicated this publisher could usually put a book into publication within a month. They didn’t accept all authors, because they were a small shop, but the author would get more personal attention. The restriction with the larger Print On Demand (POD) publishers had been the four to five month cycle to get published. Allowing time to get the book ready, that would have pushed my publication date into 2009. Now I had a plan which felt right. I realized later that this was my sign to go in the direction of Plan B: I could publish by the end of the summer, which had felt right all along.

About the same time, I got an email from Sandra, a friend I had gone to high school with in Farmington, New Mexico. We began to exchange emails, and it brought up a lot of memories for me. I had known Sandra and many of my friends in Farmington since grade school. However, my family had abruptly moved in the middle of my junior year in high school, and I’d never had a chance to say goodbye or get any closure with those people.

There was a 40th year reunion coming up in July for the class of 1968, and Sandra asked me if I was going. I had never thought about it, but even though I didn’t graduate there, I felt more connection to that high school than the one I did graduate from. I decided to go, mostly to be able to visit with Sandra. She had a perspective on my early years that no one since could have. Since she was always an insightful person, I just knew she would be able to illuminate those times for me. I sensed there was a connection between moving forward on publication and revisiting the place of my youth – the place that was still so important to me. My trip in January had given me new insight on the power of Farmington for me, and why I was so strongly bonded to it. I couldn’t tell what that connection was between publishing and Farmington, but I just knew I was supposed to go to that reunion.

Just doing research about Print On Demand publishers made me realize that I was getting serious about publication, which forced the fears to purge more intensely. I knew it was the right thing to do, and that if I didn’t confront these fears, they would continue to fester and poison my insides; eventually I would abandon another project to publish a book, just as I had done twice before. That thought wasn’t much comfort when I was laying awake with all the lights on, my legs shaking with fear, feeling unsafe. But it had to be done, so I continued to let the old fears release.

Photo Credit

“Eminem at 3 a.m.”

On Thursday, April 24, 2008, I woke up knowing it was time to do the written inner child exercise I had been preparing for. I went to the Fort Worth Library, sat down at a table in the back of the book stacks, and began to write. The rest of the incident with my Grandmother (who we called Mamaw) came out. It was chilling. Once again I sensed I was talking to a terrified eight-year-old child:

“Danny?”

“Yes?”

“It’s me. I’d like to talk to you. You know, about what else happened with Mamaw. You remember, I told you last week I’d like you to think about telling me what else happened with her. Are you ready to talk?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Danny, I know this will be painful for you. It’s not going to be a pleasant memory, I can already sense that.”

“No, it’s not. That’s for sure.”

“But you remember what I’ve told you before — that talking about these old ugly things help them go away so you can be more free to feel the joy of your writing? You want to do that, don’t you?”

“Oh yeah, for sure!”

“And you understand more and more that people really need to be able to read what we write, to hear what you say?”

“Yeah, I get that. But that makes it more scary.”

“Because all the stuff Mamaw told you gets closer to happening?”

“Well, yeah, if people read my writing, they might like it, and I’d get famous, and then, you know.”

“What? Tell me again.”

“They would call me crazy and lock me up.”

“But those were all lies — remember us talking about that?”

“Yes, but it’s hard to remember. She said it so much.”

“I understand. Well, we will just keep working on letting you see how what she said was all lies, and won’t happen. OK?”

“Yeah, OK.”

“Remember, it’s all about getting back to the joy of writing.”

“OK.”

“Danny? Are you ready to talk about what else happened?”

“Yeah, I guess so. But you promise I won’t get hurt if I tell?”

“Danny, I promise. I will take care of you. I won’t let you get hurt. But remember, it was all lies — so if we say it out loud, we’ll be able to see it and hear how stupid her lies were.”

“Yeah, OK.”

“Do you remember the Dracula movies?”

“Yeah, they were scary.”

“Well, you remember how Dracula could never go out in the sunlight? If he did he would wither up and die?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, this is like that. If we expose Mamaw’s lies to the light they will wither up and die.”

“Cool!”

“Mamaw will not be powerful any more. She will melt like the Wicked Witch of the West did when they poured water on her. She will go away and won’t be able to hurt us any more.”

“Way cool!”

“Now, the last night you were going to stay with her Mamaw took you to Sycamore Park, to play miniature golf. Breathe, Danny!”

“OK, yeah, but this hurts to think about.”

“I know. I’m sure it does. But only for a little while, and we can be free of this. So Mamaw told you Dr. R. could have you committed to an asylum, right?”

“Yeah, I didn’t know what an asylum was, but just the way she said it I knew it couldn’t be good. But there was no way I was going to ask what it was.”

“Something else happened that night, didn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me?”

“We drove home, and Mamaw was all happy and giggly. Until she started talking about having to take me over to Grandmother Justin’s the next day. Then she looked a little sad, and a lot angry.”

“Why do you think that was?”

“She said she didn’t like them over there because they thought they were better than her. She didn’t like them a lot. We got home, went into her house, and she asked if I really understood about what Doctor R. could do to me. I wasn’t sure why she kept talking about it, or what she wanted me to say. So I just kind of nodded, and said “Uh, huh.” I guess she didn’t like that. She said she needed to show me what it would be like to be in an asylum. She had been inside one before as a nurse, and she knew what they were like.”

“How did she look?”

“She was smiling but she had kind of a funny look on her face — kind of like that guy who used to play Dracula in the movies. Really creepy.”

“OK, so what did she do?”

“She took me in the back bedroom, where I stayed, and opened the closet door. She said they would lock me up in a room about that size and leave me in there for a long time.”

“How did that feel when she was showing you this?”

“I was horrified — it looked real scary to be closed up like that.”

“What did she do then?”

“She said I needed to know what it felt like, so she told me I needed to go in the closet for a while.”

“How did you react?”

“I went cold and numb and my stomach hurt. I told her I didn’t want to do that.”

“What did she say then?”

“She said if I didn’t do what she said, she would call Doctor R., and they could have me committed, locked up in an asylum for a couple of days, just to show me what it was like. She said doing this wouldn’t be nearly as bad. And she was doing it for my own good.”

“What did you do?”

“I went into the closet, and she closed the door behind me.”

“Did she lock it?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t remember it. I think the door didn’t have a lock. But she told me to think of it like the door was all locked up, and I couldn’t get out.”

“What happened then?”

“I was standing there, and there was a little strip of light under the door, and then I heard her flip a light switch, and the light went away. And it was really dark.”

“What did you do then?”

“I pushed aside some shoes and sat down in the corner, with my arms wrapped around my legs. I couldn’t understand why she was doing this. I felt numb — too numb to cry or get up. And I knew I didn’t dare open the door and leave, or much worse would happen to me. So I just sat.”

“Was it quiet?”

“No, I could hear the TV going next door in Mamaw’s room, and occasionally I could hear her laughing.”

“How long were you in there?”

“I don’t know, it felt like forever, but I guess it was a couple of hours. I think she came and let me out before she went to bed. I heard the light switch, and saw the strip of light under the door, then she opened the closet door, and the light was real bright. She told me I could come out now, and it was time to go to bed. She said she hoped I had learned the lesson — not to ever be a famous writer, or really bad things would happen. I just nodded, and she left, closing the door behind her.”

“What did you do then?”

“I got in bed, but I couldn’t sleep.”

“OK, I can imagine. What was going on for you?”

“Well, I kept thinking about that closet door. I couldn’t see it with the lights off, but I kind of could see it in my mind still. It was real scary. So I just sat on the bed with my arms wrapped around my legs, looking around and listening.”

“Wow, Danny, that must have been really scary.”

“It was, it was so scary.”

“Could you go to sleep?”

“I guess I did, after a long time.”

“Danny, that was a horrible thing to happen to you, and I’m sorry you had to go through it. You’ve been very brave to tell me about it. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome”.

“Danny, let me ask you something. Remember when you were in Farmington and you started having nightmares and being afraid to go to sleep?”

“Oh yeah, after I saw The Blob with Steve McQueen. That was so scary.”

“But wasn’t it also after that first summer with Mamaw, when all of this happened?”

“Oh yeah, you’re right! It was about then. I had to check under the bed every night for monsters, and couldn’t fall asleep.”

“Do you think it could have been because of the things that happened to you with Mamaw?”

“Yeah — yeah! I bet that’s right. That’s when the monsters came out.”

“But Danny, can you see how ridiculous were the lies she told you?”

“Yeah, sort of.”

“Well, think about it. Do you really think she asked Doctor R., and he would have agreed to talk to an eight-year-old boy about locking him up.”

“Oh, yeah, I see what you’re saying.”

“Danny, I guarantee you there was never any truth to any of the things she told you. Her putting you in the closet was horrible, and a very bad thing. But do you see how sick she was, to do something like that to a bright, gifted eight-year-old child?”

“Yeah, I see what you mean.”

“Danny, this was a terrible thing she did to you, and you didn’t deserve that. But you’ve exposed her craziness to the light now, and it can start withering up and dying now, and we can be free of it.”

“Like Dracula.”

“Exactly. You’ve been very brave to come out and tell me this. Very well done! Remember, this will lead to great joy and freedom — and safety. And that’s why we’ve been doing it. How do you feel right now, Danny?”

“I feel better. A lot better. Lighter. And my stomach doesn’t hurt any more.”

“Great, Danny! Glad to hear it. Now go rest. You deserve it!”

I sat there numb and worn out, but aware that the tough part was over. The truth had come out. Possibly the biggest and hopefully (fingers crossed) the last obstacle to my writing had been exposed to the light, where I could release it and have it no longer intrude, no longer control my world.

Photo Credit

“Locked Up” Derekskey @ flickr.com. Creative Commons. Some Rights Reserved.