Behind the scene, writing a memoir

Ten years. It only took me more than ten years to wrap up my memoir. Why did it take so long? I only knew the book had to be written. It kept gradually crawling its way back into my cells. I needed to get it out, or I’d be sick! Like cancer, it was eating away at me slowly on a daily basis. So, I knew I needed to write the story out of my system or suffer a slow painful death.

I had no problem with writing. I could write my brains and heart out without a pause, and then keep on writing until the break of dawn. But I did get stuck on the logistics. I didn’t know if I should write from a first person or third person point of view. I struggled with whether to write my memoir in my voice or my father’s voice. I tried to do both. Is that even allowed?

I struggled with whether to make fiction or non-fiction? I wrote and wrote, despite the war raging in my head. I went back and forth writing it over and over in first person, third person, fiction, non-fiction, a child’s perspective, and an adult’s!

Names, when I got to the names I didn’t know if they should be real names or fictitious names? What if I inadvertently hurt feelings of a loved one? What if someone sues me!? What if I got so much political blow back that I could never go back to my island or my country? Uggh! You’d think writing would be more fun! For that matter, it should make my heart sing and my soul glow. Why so many complications?

I began to visit various writing groups, making friends, but also struggled with their comments. There was so many suggestions or corrections to make that I thought I would lose my voice entirely and that I’d never be finished with my manuscript at all.

Then when my father passed away, I finally felt free to write without abandon. My inner voice prevailed. I just did it. I just kept on writing. Prior to his passing, he actually gave me license to tell his story, or rather he gave me his blessing. In fact, prior to his death he had fully cooperated and started writing chapters outlines himself or at least summaries. In the end, he’d hired a cousin of mine, who happened to be the city’s historian to help him write down his thoughts.

Dad flew him to Manila to interview his friend Ben G, a business tycoon who owned shipping vessels. He had been a political prisoner also. They were all so reluctant to share their stories because it was too painful for them to even remember.

So when Dad passed away, I finally felt free to tell his story although I still feel some nudges from the other side. I was still conflicted and continued to wrestle with the remaining issue of how to handle political disclosures. I was still somewhat stuck with the dilemma of first and third person voice, fiction or non-fiction, until as if by divine intervention, I met Darby who was a journalist and an author who had published several of books.

“First, let’s get the skeletons out of the closet,” she suggested “and go from there.” Yeah, right. Bare the bones and all! But with her professional guidance, she helped to bring the story out of me. With her editorials skills we collaborated to organize my memoir adding a backbone, a structure and a proper timeline.

Although I speak four languages, English was my country’s first language, well nearly its’s first language. Darby explained in a gentle soft manner that there’s a certain kind of English that’s more acceptable for most readers. I’d heard of American or British English, or even Australian English, for that matter. Even though, I grew up reading and writing in English in schools and in my universities, and though I lived in the US for more than a decade, this was new to me. She translated ‘my English’ into a ‘readers English’. With her kind guidance and professionalism, my book came into fruition and that was how “The Doorbell, the Dictator and the Dad” by Mitos Suson and Darby Patterson was born!

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