The Story That Wouldn’t Let Me Go

How My Father’s Past—and My Words—Set Me Free

Ten years. That’s how long it took me to finish my memoir. Over a decade. Why did it take so long? I’m still not entirely sure. All I knew was that it had to be written. The story kept crawling back into my body, like a memory stored deep in my cells. It needed to come out—urgently. Not writing it felt like carrying a slow-burning cancer. I had to purge it from my system, or else…

Writing itself wasn’t the problem. I could pour my heart and brain onto the page without pause, writing through the night and into the next day. But the logistics of writing? That’s where I got stuck. I didn’t know if a memoir should be written in the first person or the third. Should it be in my voice or my father’s? I tried both—if that’s even allowed.

And then there was the question of genre. Should it be fiction or nonfiction? I kept writing anyway, despite the war in my head. I bounced between formats—first person, third person, adult perspective, child’s voice—over and over again.

Even names became complicated. Should I use real names or fictional ones? What if I hurt someone I love? What if I got sued? What if I stirred up so much political backlash that I could never return to my island, my homeland? You’d think writing a book would be freeing, maybe even joyful. Shouldn’t it make your heart sing and your soul glow? But instead, I found myself tangled in endless questions, facing so much soul-searching.

I joined writing groups and found community—and critique. The feedback was well-meaning but overwhelming. So many suggestions, corrections, and stylistic opinions, I feared it would drown my voice entirely. Would I ever finish this manuscript?

Then my father passed away.

And suddenly, I felt free. I could write without restraint. My inner voice returned with clarity, and I just did it. Before his death, he had actually given me his blessing to tell his story. He even participated in the process, writing outlines and summaries of chapters. He wanted this book to exist. He’d hired a cousin—our city’s historian—to help him put his memories on paper.

He even flew him to Manila to interview Ben, a business tycoon and former political prisoner, one of Dad’s old friends. Both men had long buried their stories, too painful to revisit. And yet, they understood the importance of remembering. Of sharing. Even if others were still not ready to hear it.

So when Dad passed, I felt it was finally time. Time to tell his story. My story. Ours. And yet, even with his blessing, I remained torn—struggling with questions about point of view, genre, tone. The old dilemmas still haunted me.

Then, as if by divine timing, I met Darby—a journalist and published author. She looked at me and said, “First, let’s get the skeletons out of the closet—and go from there.”

Right. Bare the bones.

With her guidance, I did just that. She helped me find the spine of the story—its structure, its pulse. Together, we organized the chaos, imposed a timeline, and built the book from the inside out.

Though I speak four languages, English isn’t technically my country’s mother tongue. But we spoke mostly English at home, and I’ve always considered it my first language. Still, Darby gently explained that there’s a certain kind of English that readers expect—a rhythm, a tone. Despite having lived in the U.S. for over a decade, I discovered I was still learning. She helped me translate my English into readers’ English.

Thanks to her patience and professional guidance, the book took shape—and came to life.

That’s how A Doorbell, A Dictator, and A Dad by Mitos Suson and Darby Patterson was born. If interested, you may secure a copy here.
https://www.amazon.com/Doorbell-Dictator-Dad-daughters-
IMarcoss/dp/B08BD9CZG5/

It’s FREE on KindleUnlimited.