Blogfest 2009

I would feel that my book was doing what it is supposed to be doing: moving people, stirring them to action, raising dustclouds in areas of their psyche that they would rather see shrivel up and disappear. Some of my favorite authors have books that have been banned – Judy Blume, Chris Crutcher, Margaret Atwood, Maya Angelou, Toni Morrison, Bapsi Sidhwa, and Carolyn Mackler, just to name a few.

The banned books these authors wrote were incredibly important. Some of them, I would clutch to my chest as a teen and hold close as evidence that someone out there knew what I was going through. Someone out there understood and cared enough to write the truth and, as a result, to challenge it in its current state.

I think it’s one thing to want to protect children and teens from harm – from what is age-inappropriate. That, I am one hundred percent in support of. But it is another thing entirely to keep children and teens from reading about things they are experiencing, or at least witnessing in their lives. In these cases, I find it’s always best to discuss and to explore the issues together. By banning all discussion, the only people being protected are the adults who then don’t have to address the issues. Children and teens ultimately have to address the issues with or without the help and support of the adults in their lives.

Yes, many times. Maybe even on a daily basis. And as soon as I make the solid, no-turning-back decision to quit, I begin to obsess about what I was working on – you know, the piece that made me want to quit. And the more I obsess about it and turn the darn thing over in my mind (and over and over), the more cranky and irritating I become to the people I love most in my life. And when all of my relationships with my loved ones are at their most taut, just-about-had-enough-of-you state, something shifts.

Suddenly, I get a brainstorm. It’s as if a fortress wall has crumbled and all these ideas come rushing at me and I snatch the nearest notepad, or run to my computer and let it all course out of my fingers.

And then I’m in love again :D.

Writing has always been a life raft for me. It is a form of expression that is as necessary as breathing. It allows me to purge, play, explore, rant, and find answers in a safe way – with no one talking back or getting upset with me for having my feelings or thoughts and expressing them. Publishing, on the other hand, has made me a way more stressed out and neurotic person (grin).

I would love to go back and visit my ancestors, and to actually be able to live in their time for a short, definite period. So much of who we are and where we are is because of the decisions the people before us have made. I have a zillion questions in my mind about my origins – going further back than just the stories my parents can tell me. Besides – those stories, I’ve learned, are often mixed with a healthy dose of fiction. Usually, they are “revisionist” history. In other words, my parents’ or grandparents’ versions often include events the way the person telling the story wishes they had happened, or additional drama/comedy is thrown in to make the story more interesting. And I find that the women are always “the most beautiful woman of her time,” while the men are “exceedingly handsome and brave as a lion.”

My parents didn’t speak English when we moved to Canada. So, I became an interpreter at a very young age (five). I interpreted not only words for my parents, but also culture, and most of this was as I was learning it myself – let’s face it, most five-year-olds are still building a working vocabulary! When I think about what made me start writing, I always go back to that particular time in my life. I started writing to give voice to those who couldn’t find the words themselves – to write myself and those I loved into existence in a way.

But mostly, I starting writing to connect with people and to give the unknowable some form of expression. It feels like such an accomplishment when I find the exact, perfect sentence or word to describe what is inside – that vast vat of roiling thoughts and emotions, all merging and colliding into a mess within our selves. Trying to pick through all that and give it shape and form and then refine it and polish it and throw it up . . . and hope it grows wings. I think that’s why I write, mostly.