Why Did I Write a Memoir?

Credit: Neal Sanche (Creative Commons)

Credit: Neal Sanche (Creative Commons)

Before I get into this, I want to congratulate Tanya Marlow. Her new book, Those Who Wait: Finding God in Disappointment, Doubt and Delay, launched today. So I bet you can guess what I’ll be reading tonight.

I’ll have some exciting book announcement stuff of my own coming soon (I want to make a video for that, but I honestly just don’t feel like putting on something other than a wrinkled T-shirt that says “Me? Sarcastic? NEVER!”). For now, I want to talk about why I wrote a memoir.

I guess anyone who reads my stuff would assume they know why I wrote it. When I was eighteen, I had a stalker. So I wrote a misery memoir about being a stalking victim.

Yeahhhhhhh . . . that’s totally not what it is.

What’s the book about?

Sure, the stalking stuff is in there, and sure it’s intense at times, but the point isn’t I was stalked.

The point is the same thing that made my stalker feel entitled to me makes a lot of men feel entitled to women. Stalking isn’t the disease. It’s a symptom.

It’s a book about male entitlement, how that impacts women–not just during the assault, but long after–and the cumulative affect it has.

I pulled stories from my own experiences to try to tell a much bigger story. It’s not my story. It’s our story.

It’s about how women are objectified inside the church and outside the church. It’s about how our allies, the “good guys,” so often turn out to be the guys who hurt us. It’s about how our communities are complicit and turn away from us rather than addressing these issues and solving the problem. Because women are disposable. Because we’re less than. Because supporting us isn’t worth experiencing a little conflict.

Why did I write it?


My short answer is, “God told me to.”

And that’s true. I mean, he didn’t speak to me from the clouds or anything, but I have always known I’d write this book. Over the past few years, I’ve felt a strong pull to write it, even when I really, really didn’t want to. I’ve done a lot of praying. Like, a shitload of praying, y’all.

Personal narrative humanizes. It can help people empathize. We should understand what drives sexualized violence by now, but we obviously don’t.

We still blame women. We still excuse the actions and attitudes of men.

My hope is this book can help educate people who are open to understanding, but need to live through some of this alongside someone to really get it.

I spoke with another author early on in this process. She asked me if I’d considered fictionalizing my story. It’d have made things a hell of a lot easier on me, emotionally. But I decided not to because it’s so important for people to understand that these things really do happen. And they really do happen often.

The thing about my story is that it sounds unique and strange, but it’s not. At all.

It’s a common story that just doesn’t get told very often.

I want to be clear here. No victim is obligated to share their story. Not everyone is in a place where it’d be healthy to do that, and there is a real cost associated with coming forward. Sometimes it’s not worth paying that price, and I fully support anyone in that position. If you’ve been through anything like this, please don’t feel bad if you aren’t comfortable speaking out.

I’m telling these stories, not for myself, but for everyone who has stories like this. We shouldn’t all have to bare our wounds to the world to change things. Maybe if I show my wounds, other women won’t have to show theirs.

Am I afraid?

I’ve had several people express some concern for my safety. I really do appreciate that. It means you think I’m valuable enough to keep walking the earth. So, thank you for that. I plan to keep walking around, tossing puns out there, and sharing dank memes.

I am going to have to burst your bubble, though.

The reality is, I’m never safe. You’re never safe. None of us are ever safe.

Yes, I’m putting my name on the cover of this book. Yes, my stalker is still out there somewhere. No, that won’t put me in any more danger than I’ve ever been in.

If he wanted to find me, he’d already have found me.

Next year, I might get a new neighbor and maybe he’s a stalker. Maybe someone online will latch onto me.

I’ll probably get more of this shit. I fully expect it.

The thing is, women are stalked and harassed and assault no matter what they do. That’s also why I wrote this book. To show that.

I could write a book or not write a book. It wouldn’t make any difference. At some point in my life, something will happen to me again. So I may as well do something productive with it all and try to open some eyes.

I’ve counted the cost. So, no, I’m not afraid. And, yes, I know exactly what I’m doing.

If you’ve stuck around this long, here’s an excerpt [trigger warning: non-graphic mention of rape]:

When I was ten years old, I repeated something I’d heard on some late ’80s sitcom. We were driving home from the skating rink and I piped up from the backseat to ask, “When do you think I’ll go through puberty?”

After a tense pause, Mom cocked her head back and told me not to use “language like that.”

Eight years later, I felt more than a little awkward as I sat in a cramped sheriff’s office and described my sexiest pair of underwear to Dad and the balding police officer sitting behind the desk.

Maybe I’d have been better off tossing the underwear and picture into the trash, but I was worried about Ben. Erasing a person by taking away his face was about the creepiest thing I could imagine, so I showed the picture and my underwear to my parents.

Dad drove me down to the sheriff’s office to file a report about it, even though I didn’t want to. I asked Dad why he couldn’t go down and file it for me, but he said I had to because I was the one who found everything, and I was the “object of obsession,” according to those websites Mom kept looking up to read about stalkers. That phrase was the worst. I wasn’t an object.

But Ray had made me into a thing because things can be controlled.

And hadn’t my own church done that to me when they quoted Romans 14:13 and told us girls to be careful about the way we dressed so we wouldn’t be a “stumbling block” to our Christian brothers? A stumbling block isn’t a person, made in the image of God. It’s just a thing. Something you can blame for tripping you.

I didn’t want to be a thing, so I sat across a desk from one of our local officers and tried to tell him what happened without sounding either too hysterical or too relaxed about it all. If I got too worked up, he’d think I was overreacting and shrug the whole thing off. If I didn’t seem upset at all, well, he’d shrug that off too.

The officer listened to me, and then Dad, and nodded as we spoke. Dad wanted a restraining order, or for the police to at least warn Ray to stay away, but the police officer couldn’t fulfill either of those requests. Because what real proof did we have?

Ray had driven up and down our road several times over the past few days, but that wasn’t illegal. And, sure, Ray knew Dad was going to be away from home the night of the break-in, but everyone from our church knew that. Just like anyone from church would know exactly where I sat every Sunday.

Except not everyone from my church had been hanging around me all summer. And not everyone in our church had a history of delusions and violent outbursts. But that still wasn’t enough proof. Besides, Ray couldn’t be arrested for trying to have a conversation with me. He hadn’t been jumping through any plate-glass windows lately, and unless he publicly did something that outrageous again, people would just go right on thinking his delusions were under control.

The police officer leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk. “If he touches you, then we can do something.” He lowered his chin and raised his eyebrows on the word “touches.” It was the kind of eyebrow twitch people shoot at one another when the thing they’re thinking of is too vulgar to say out loud.

I shrank down into the metal folding chair, and my jaw clenched down painfully. So, all I had to do was sit tight until Ray raped me, and then the police would be all over it. Did he really think I was in that kind of danger? Ray was being creepy, but could someone who’d known me since I was fourteen really do that to me?

The police officer cleared his throat and addressed Dad. “Y’all got a gun in the house?”

I guess the officer thought Ray really could do that to me. I hadn’t even been touched, but I felt violated. Stripped naked in that bright office. Knowing Ray had held a pair of my underwear was bad enough, but now other possibilities ran through my head. We didn’t freely say the word “sex” in our house, but now I was talking to Dad and some stranger about my impending sexual assault. Because Ray forced me to talk about it.

We didn’t have any guns, of course, since Dad was a Mennonite pastor. A pacifist. The Bible says, “Do not resist an evil person,” and Dad lived it. At least he lived it in theory since he’d never had his theology tested before. There wasn’t much religious persecution of Anabaptists in the late 1990s.

All through junior high, I’d heard about men like Dirk Willems, who’d been arrested for his Anabaptist faith. Dirk managed to escape his prison and flee across an ice-covered lake. When his jailer tried to follow, and fell through the ice, Dirk turned back to save him. He was repaid by being imprisoned again and executed. But that was all OK because Dirk’s real reward was in heaven and in knowing he’d stayed true to Jesus’s instructions to love your enemies. Following Christ meant laying down your life, literally, if it came down to that. You couldn’t be a Christian and commit a violent act. You just couldn’t.

The officer was a little flustered by Dad’s admission, and turned back to me. He gave me a hard, steady look and said, “Sweetheart, you need to go get yourself a bat. And you sleep with it under your bed every night.”

I glanced at Dad, and forced out, “But I’m a pacifist too.”

The officer closed his eyes for a second and leaned back in his chair. I expected him to spout, “God helps those who help themselves,” but he didn’t.

After we left the station, Dad stopped by Radio Shack to pick up a webcam. He was going to point it out the window, into the parking lot. We’d at least catch Ray on video if he skulked around the front of the house.

But last time he came around back, through my window, and we couldn’t point cameras out every entrance. So, I drove myself back into town and bought a crook-handled umbrella with a big, pointy tip because the discount store didn’t carry bats.

How to Identify Venomous Snakes

flickr: Annie Chartrand

flickr: Annie Chartrand

I run faster than a snake flies.

But only sometimes.

A rat snake pinwheels, open-mouthed, through the air.

Jessica screams. I want to scream too, but if I open my mouth, I might get a mouthful of snake.

It arcs and falls, smacking my bare legs.

The freckled boy whoops it up, and Jessica screams, “Run!”

As I turn, another snake hits me in the back, and a new shriek from my best friend tells me she’s been hit too.

We run.

flickr: Jethro Taylor

flickr: Jethro Taylor

“Most snakes aren’t dangerous. They won’t attack unless you threaten them,” the tall man with the thick snake draped across his arms tells my class. “They’re more afraid of you than you are of them.”

Why would anything be afraid of me?

I’m the first second grader in line to touch the scales. I’ll prove I’m not afraid.

My sister comes home crying.

When it was the first grader’s turn, her teacher made her touch the snake, even though she was scared and didn’t want to.

flickr: expert at nothing

flickr: expert at nothing

My legs pump, and I don’t look down, even though I know I should.

Stay out of the tall grass.

Steer clear of the wood pile.

Look down while you walk so you don’t step on one.

They bite if you step on them, and who could blame them?

flickr: Markos Lolzou

flickr: Markos Lolzou

Mom’s ironing in the front room.

She picks up the black cord to wrap it up, but it’s not a cord.

She keeps the front room shut up, even after Dad removes the snake.

She won’t go in there anymore, and I won’t either.

flickr: digicla

flickr: digicla

We make it to Jessica’s building and leap up the stairs, two at a time.

Her Mom’s not home.

We’re on our own.

flickr: Michael McCarthy

flickr: Michael McCarthy

Dad says it’s easy to tell a poisonous snake from a harmless one.

Poisonous snakes have heads shaped like a diamond.

But it’s hard to judge geometry when a snake’s flying at your face.

I can’t afford to stand around, looking for diamonds.

It’s safer to run.

flickr: Pat Gaines

flickr: Pat Gaines

Jessica slams her apartment door shut and clicks the deadbolt.

My heart won’t settle.

She raises the blinds and we peek out the window.

Two stories down, the boy paces in front of her building, writhing bucket by his side, snake in hand.

Two Mennonites Walk Into a Catholic Literary Gathering…


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Full disclosure: Neither of us are actually Mennonites anymore. Sometimes we just pretend to be for the pie.

A few months ago, my friend, Timothy Putnam, gave me a head’s up about the Trying to Say “God” conference. (I’ve got to give him credit here because I usually just give him a lot of crap and nonsense.) Even though I’m not exactly Catholic (I’m not exactly anything), I couldn’t pass it up. Notre Dame isn’t that far from me and it wasn’t expensive, so I decided to give it a try.

My sister and I drove down Thursday afternoon, which meant we missed a few things that day. I would have liked to attend Mass, but part of me is still convinced I’m going to somehow offend people with my presence, so I didn’t push to go.

We must have hit the registration table right when whoever had been watching it was at Mass because it was the only time I saw the table unmanned the whole time. Since Angela and I are all independent and whatnot, we just grabbed our tags, lanyards, and info packets. When a few other stragglers wandered in right behind us, I helped them find their stuff too, which led to people thinking I was helping with the event. I quickly corrected them with, “Nope. I’m just really friendly.” (And I might have issues with boundaries.)

After that, we walked down to see Mary Karr speak. She’d injured herself and couldn’t make it, but that’s what we have Skype for. Angela liked her so much that I bought her a copy of Lit.

The next day, my first session was “The Virgin, the Annunciation, and the Artistic Imagination” with Mary Szybist. I have some mixed feelings about Mary, or really, how Mary gets portrayed, and absolutely loved the artwork and poetry. Angela found her way into a discussion on icons. She didn’t know what icons were. I know what they are (thanks, Orthodox friends!), but I didn’t tell her. Because I’m like that. She thought it was really interesting, so it worked out.

We split up again for the next session. I headed in for “Finding the Sacred in the Profane: The Role of Vulgarity in Religious Art” because of course I did. Are you new here? I appreciated the discussion, especially around where that line is, and I agree that if we’re just shocking to shock, with no greater purpose, it’s likely crossing that line. I struggle with that a little. After being in an environment where “butt” was considered a cuss word, I wave my profanity flag a little too much sometimes. Just because I can doesn’t always mean I should. Unless it’s really funny. Then I totally should. But, really, the whole conversation was right up my alley. Things that we think of as profane can absolutely point us toward the sacred. It’s counter-productive to shy away from using those tools.

Even though I’ve been writing a memoir for what seems like forever, that’s not my normal thing. In the past, I’ve mostly written fiction. And I write about weird shit sometimes, so I sat in on “Weird Fiction as Sacramental Practice”. The nice thing about a presentation like this is it sort of gives you permission to “go there”. Like, some people might call me a witch and threaten to burn me at the stake for writing something weird, but at least not everyone will do that. That’s comforting.

After that, Angela and I walked over to the Basilica of the Sacred Heart, even though we were getting rained on.


Here’s the thing about that…

When I was 10, my family moved from Texas to Elkhart, Indiana. Just after we moved, we were driving home from some place and my dad decided to stop at Notre Dame to look around the campus. I don’t remember anything about walking around the campus except going into the Basilica. Back then, my family didn’t attend church. I’d only ever been to Methodist churches, maybe a total of ten times in my life. Walking into all that artwork and all that stained glass and those ceilings made a big impression on 10-year-old me. Beauty pulls on me and it sure did back then. I wanted to go to that church. I don’t remember a lot about it, but I remember that it felt like a church. I don’t know how to describe it any better than that. Not even a year later, my parents found the Mennonites and we went down that path. I’ve always had a soft spot for Catholicism, even when I was hanging around people who thought being Catholic and being pagan were basically the same thing. The Basilica at Notre Dame is part of that soft spot.

It was really great to be able to visit it again, about 25 years later. A woman saw us walking around and pointed us toward some interesting things. We talked to her for a little while and she tried to convince us to come back as students, but we’re almost two decades too late for that.


Just before lunch, I sent Timothy a picture of me on campus to see if he could guess where I was. Then I got a list of people he wanted me to say “hi” to because he forgot I’m the most introverted person in the world (You can be both introverted and kind of aggressive. It’s a thing!) and I always make terrible first impressions on anyone who crosses my path. It’s not that I’m shy. I just don’t like to impose myself on other people. When I hemmed and hawed a little about it, he outed me as a Mennonite and sent my picture around to people he knows because apparently that’s what friends do.

I had to duck out early after that. The weather was being crazy and I have chronic migraines, so that’s not a good mix. I was disappointed because I really wanted to hear Heather King speak. I read Shirt of Flame a few years ago and loved it, so I was pretty frustrated with my stupid head. Thankfully, Angela and I had an opportunity to listen to her on our drive home since her talk was recorded and uploaded to Sound Cloud.

I wrapped up Friday night by eating a bunch of lasagna from Olive Garden and chilling in the hotel room. That was kind of a big deal because we don’t have an Olive Garden anywhere near me. When I say I live in the woods, I really mean that. The nearest McDonald’s is about 45 minutes away.

My sister and I are kicking around an idea that we aren’t ready to make public yet, but that idea was why we were so excited to go into our first session on Saturday: “Devotional Literature with Teeth: Writing Complexity and Darkness in Modern Spiritual Writing”. Right before we went in, Angela and I were standing around in the hall (eating free muffins!) and I was venting a little. Sometimes I experience push-back against what I do. If I’d just be a little more inspirational… If I’d just show the upside of a being traumatized… If I’d just clean up my language… If I’d just make people less uncomfortable… I’d have a bigger readership. My response to that is always the same. The people who want some easy, feel-good, inspirational writing without any real substance already have people providing that for them. They’re being served. I’m writing for the people who aren’t served by that. For the people who are still hungry after that. For the people who want to connect with someone who doesn’t pretend that believing in Jesus makes the pain go away. For the people who live with thorns they can’t get rid of. For the people who don’t have any patience for pretentiousness. For people who enjoy a little dark humor because we all get that it’s how we survive sometimes. I don’t care if I have a big readership. I only care if I’m reaching the people I need to reach. It was affirming to hear that echoed in the Devotional Literature panel. I get a lot of “you’re doing it wrong” either implicitly or explicitly. It was nice to hear that maybe I’m doing it right.

My sister walked away with more new books than I did. This is the first time that’s happened since 2003 when she was buying Christian books in a bookstore, while I was loudly being mouthy about how crappy Christians are, right when we ran into a man from our dad’s church who was buying a South Beach Diet book. I told you I don’t make a good impression on people.

The last session we went into was my favorite: “Not Always Sweet: Beyond Liturgical Cupcakes in Catholic Women’s Writing”. When female orgasms get brought up, you know it’s going to be a good time. The only time I got anywhere close to crying was during this session. That’s partially because of how personal and painful some of these stories were, and partially because of how freaking hilarious these women are. Listening to so many different women, from different backgrounds, talk about their own challenges and how they live out their calling as both writers (and I absolutely believe it’s a calling) and Catholic women was the first time in a very, very long time (maybe ever) that I felt like I was sitting in a room with people who really “get it”. I feel privileged to have been some small part of that. I live in a fairly conservative area, and I also run in mostly non-religious circles (out of self-preservation, more than anything). I have a very small circle of women who are both religious and called to create. That gets lonely. It was worth driving five hours, just for this session.

I had to take off after that. Again, I’m so thankful for those Sound Cloud recordings.

I didn’t interact with anyone else too much, aside from my weird rural, southern thing where I “hello” and “how are you?” at almost everyone I pass.

When you’re around a bunch of writers, they’re going to ask you what you write. And remember that thing about me making bad first impressions? Yeah. “Hey! I’m Kristy and I just wrote a book about someone who straight up wanted to murder me because the Bible and some of our church members were cool with it. What’s your deal?” probably isn’t the way to go. They might start thinking he had a point, you know?

I’m really glad I went. It was a positive and affirming experience, which is important to me since I’m up here, alone in the woods and all.

Mandatory Year-end Blog Post 2016

2016 started rough. I was still working on the first draft of my memoir, and writing a book is hard, y’all. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done (and I once managed to get my car out of a snowbank using nothing but McDonald’s bags). I feel like a wizard should show up to tell me I’ve fulfilled my destiny or some shit. Except I’m still revising a little, so the wizard will have to come back sometime in 2017.

Honestly, I haven’t done much this year besides write, read, watch Kimmy Schmidt, and eat insane amounts of wintergreen Life Savers. I have a super glamorous life.


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What Does Being Stalked Look Like? 

Last year, my parents found several rolls of undeveloped film. When they developed them, we found a whole roll of pictures that were taken while I was being stalked. While working on my memoir, I pulled out all the pictures my family has of just before and after this time as well. Seeing a visual timeline spread out like that hit me harder than I thought it would. It was like watching my life fall apart. When I shared some of those pictures, I didn’t think people would be very interested in them. I’m still not sure why this post was so popular. Maybe it helps drive home just how young I was. Maybe people just like seeing me in tie-dye (I know I do).


When Supporters Strip Rape Victims

header imageVictims are often stripped of their voice. Because of fear or shame or people who won’t listen. It’s important to allow them to speak about their experiences, on their own terms, without projecting our own assumptions onto them.

Sometimes I write a post because I’m frustrated with a trend. This was one of those times.


The God Who Suffers

God knows what it’s like to be abandoned by the people you love. God knows what it’s like to be falsely accused. God knows what it’s like to be humiliated and shamed. God knows what it’s like to suffer.

While I don’t fully understand the Trinity (who does?), I have a much deeper appreciation for it. I’ve grown more attached to the crucified Christ through that.


What Does Forgiveness Look Like?

What does forgiveness look like when you’re still broken? When you’ll never not be broken? How do you forgive someone who doesn’t think they did anything wrong?

If you ever get down on yourself for being slow to forgive, just remember it took me 15 years just to get started. (Bonus: Y2K fantasies)


How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Creeds

Credit: Steve SnodgrassChristians all over the world, in different traditions that wouldn’t normally agree on much, stand up together on Sunday mornings and as one body recite the same words Christians have recited for centuries. And that’s a powerful thing to be a part of.

More evidence that I’m some sort of denominational Frankenstein’s monster. (See? I know the monster’s name isn’t Frankenstein. How impressed are you right now?)

Next Steps for My Book and Dirk McPecks


At least I’m not afraid of red or taking a ridiculous amount of notes. I am a little afraid of commas.

I’m sitting here, glasses on, burned coffee beside me, and water dripping off my hair and down the back of my shirt because I’m not going out today, so who am I trying to impress? Right now, I’m taking a break from tweaking that book I’ve been working on because that’s all that’s left. Tweaks. (Don’t tell me that’s not a fun word.)

The major revision work is done (I hope) and now all I’m doing is reading through it one more time to fix all those times I changed tense for no damn reason at all or typed something redundant or got a little rambly. And I’m realizing I suck at titling chapters, so we might have to crowd-title that shit, y’all.

Next step: My family gets to read it, and then tell me all the things I got wrong so we can argue about it until someone feels bad and buys everyone else a pizza as an apology. (Really, I’m just in this for the pizza.)

Next, Next step: I’ll start contacting people who are in the book (well, the ones I’m sure wouldn’t hang up on me if I called), just to give them a head’s up and the option of using a pseudonym. So, if you think you might be in my book, start thinking of clever pseudonyms like Dirk McPecks, but you can’t use that one because I already called dibs.

Honestly, I’m a little jittery about that part. I know not everyone’s going to appreciate being written into a book, even if all I’m doing is talking about how awesome they are.

This is my super fierce editing face. This is the face that writes, "Dammit, Kristy! Nobody wants to read about this shit," in red ink.

This is my super fierce editing face. This is the face that crosses entire pages out and writes, “Dammit, Kristy! Nobody wants to read about this shit,” in red ink.

Next, Next, Next Step: Beta readers. After I’ve “done the right thing” and contacted everyone on my list, I’ll go through and make all the name changes I need to make, then turn the whole thing over to a group of beta readers. I’ll get some feedback, and I’ll go through another round or two of revisions based on that. Maybe all the beta readers think that scene of my family eating dinner was too short. I could add more. Maybe they all think that Bible study scene is the most boring thing they’ve ever read and why, God, why am I putting them through this? It’s not like I can’t cut a scene or two and replace it with something else. A lot of things happened and hardly any of those things are included in the manuscript right now. (See how I used the term “manuscript” there? That’s how you know I’m super legit. It could even be argued that I’m too legit, but don’t worry. I won’t quit.)

While my family is doing their read-through, I want to get together a list of beta readers. I’ve already had a few people express an interest, but I need a few more. If you’re interested, please let me know. If you’re not interested, but you know someone who might be, please check with them. Ideally, a beta reader is someone who will give me both positive and negative feedback. What works well? What doesn’t work well?

Why does everything I write come across like a sugar-crazed, hyperactive 14-year-old wrote it? This. This is why.

Why does everything I write come across like a sugar-crazed, hyperactive 14-year-old wrote it? This. This is why.

Next, Next, Next, Next Step: This is where I freak out because the beta readers have my manuscript and they’re all reading it and judging it and judging me, but that’s okay because I’ll get over it since I know having more eyes on it will make it way more awesome than I could make it on my own. Then I’ll get all emotional and start crying because I can’t believe people volunteered to read my book and I love them all so much and I want to bake them cookies.

Next, Next, Next, Next, Next Step: One last read through. One last round of line edits, which result in me googling comma usage and chewing on my pen because why aren’t comma rules more straight-forward holy crap English is the worst! And then I’ll start querying agents and I’ll mention my very large family who will all buy my book, so who needs a big online platform?

I’m excited and anxious and a little nauseous. And suddenly very aware of how much I abuse the word “and”.

The thing is, I’ve been saying, “I’m going to write books” since I was eight years old. When I was eighteen, and all that stuff with the stalker happened, my life took off in an unplanned for direction. I always meant to write this book, and now I have. And, whatever happens next, I’m going to chalk that up as a victory.

Now What? Q&A About That Whole Book Thing

If you follow me on Facebook or Twitter, you probably know I finished the first draft of my memoir.

I know a lot of writers don’t like to talk about their WIP, but whatever. I’m not one of those writers.

Since I’ve been talking about working on it for over a year, and since it’s such a sensitive topic for some people, I figured I ought to answer some questions I’ve gotten.

When is the book going to be published?

I have no freaking clue. A first draft is just a first draft. It’s nowhere near ready to publish. The next step is to revise the shit out of it. After that, I’ll revise the shit out of it some more. After I’ve revised all the shitty parts, I’ll recruit a few beta readers. They’ll go through each chapter and point out all the shit I missed so I can go through another round of revisions.

Are you going to self-publish?

Maybe, but probably not. That would be a lot of work. Never say never and all, but I’d prefer not to self-publish. I think life would be easier for me if I tried to get an agent and went with traditional publishing. But that’s all way down the road.

Celebratory grilled cheese

Celebratory grilled cheese

Does your book have cuss words?

Fuck this question.

Is X in your book?

Maybe. It’s a first draft, so most things are still up in the air. I can tell you there will be:

  • a stalker who wants to marry and kill me
  • church folks who are sort of OK with that
  • church folks who aren’t as OK with that
  • shitty theology
  • slightly less shitty theology
  • boys
  • girls
  • vodka
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Don't be an asshole

Don’t be an asshole

Can I read your draft?

No. Well, unless you’re in my writing group. If you are, then you’ve already read some of it, so why are you asking stupid questions like this?

What the hell are beta readers?

They’re people who will read through my revised draft and give me some feedback, from a reader’s perspective. They are not proofreaders.

Can I be a beta reader?

Probably. You have to be willing to give me feedback, which might include telling me entire sections of my memoir are pointless. And you can’t be too emotionally invested in the story because I need to know how a reader who starts the book not giving a rat’s ass about me as a person would respond to it.

If you’re interested in beta reading and you aren’t a close friend, family member, or someone who knew me as a teenager, leave me a comment and I’ll contact you when I’m ready (and also, you’re pretty and smart and awesome).

I took a picture of myself when I finished that draft, but I look crappy in it so here's a picture from a different day where I somehow look all smug while sitting on a kid's swing set.

I took a picture of myself when I finished my draft, but I look crappy in it so here’s a picture from a few weeks before that where I somehow look all smug while sitting on a child’s swing set.

Hey, Kristy, am I in your book?

Maybe. Are you concerned about that? Well, guess you shouldn’t have been such a shit head then.

OK, but seriously… if you knew me when I was a teenager or in my early 20s, you might be in the book. It’s hard to write about two years of my life and not include the people who made a significant impact. I can’t say who’s going to be there in the end (aside from my immediate family members). Some scenes that are in the book right now might get cut; some might get added. Aside from a few key players, I really don’t know who’ll be there and who won’t be.

If you do wind up in the book, don’t worry about it. I’m not going to surprise my friends. (Like, how shitty do y’all think I am?) I’ll get ahold of you and see if you want to read over any scenes you’re in. If there’s something in there you have a major issue with, we’ll talk about it. If you don’t want your real name in there, I’m fine with disguising your identity and handing out pseudonyms.

If you don’t like me, you’ll automatically get a pseudonym. I’m writing a book about events that happened in my life. During some of those events, some of you were total dicks. But I’m not going to be a dick about it and out you. So settle down.

Writing in the Mud

Credit: OuadiO

Credit: OuadiO

A while back, someone asked me a question on Facebook. She wanted to write about some traumatic experiences in her life and was looking for advice on how to write through the pain. She wanted to know how I did it.

I didn’t have a great answer for her then, and I don’t have a great answer now. What I do have is a little more experience with it and I can at least give her and others an idea of what they might be getting into.

People who want to write about their own traumatic experiences have challenges that go beyond constructing an interesting sentence or getting dialogue just right. If anyone thinks they’re going to stay snow white while rolling around in the dirt, I’m here to tell them they’re kidding themselves.

Memories Bubble Up At Inconvenient Times

A few months ago, I was cruising down the road, singing along with Taylor Swift (What? Don’t pretend those songs aren’t catchy…) and this image of my sister packing up her doll hit me with the force of a thousand End Times preachers. Now, I’m not a weepy person or anything, but I cried my way through the rest of the song and then tried to pull myself together before picking my kid up from school.

Why did that happen? Because memories unlock more memories. The doll thing wasn’t some deep, repressed memory or anything like that. It’s just something that happened and I haven’t thought about it since it happened. Right now, I’m writing about that time period, so all of my memories from that time are spread out on the desktop of my brain, all nice and easily accessible. And sometimes the contents spill out a little.

It’s not a bad thing necessarily. The doll memory went into my draft and it feels like an important scene to have in there. But if you aren’t prepared for random memories and sporadic weepiness, it can make life a little difficult.

You’re Going to Get Angry

Well, I get angry at least. Sometimes I’m following along on my outline and I get to an episode that just really gets my goat. So, I just go on ahead and write my “Who the fuck do these fuckers think they fucking are?” draft to get it out of my system. I don’t even go back and read most of these drafts (most of them are handwritten and mostly illegible anyway.)

I use anger as a defense. If I’m angry, then I don’t have to feel anything else. After I get the fuckitedy-fuck-fuck-fuckers draft out of the way I can peak under that blanket of anger to see what emotions are really there. Insecurity. Shame. Loneliness. That’s what I need to write about because that’s what’s real.

It Can Be Hard to Transition Back and Forth

Have you ever watched a movie with a sad ending or finished a book that left you feeling sad? And when you walk away from that book or movie, does that feeling sort of linger for a while sometimes?

That’ll happen if you write about your own life too. When you get past the initial anger, when you tap into one of those memories, when you start writing the words you were meant to write and touch those old emotions, they’ll linger even after you step away from the keyboard.

It can be hard to transition from writing an emotionally charged scene and your present day life. I have to write when my kids are out of the house. It’s impossible for me to tap into the emotions I need to explain what it was like to sit around and wait for a murder attempt while my kid is pestering me for just one more handful of chips.

My best advice here is to give yourself space. Sandwich writing time between things you love to do, or things that you know help pull you out of an emotional funk.

Sometimes You Have to Live to Write Another Day

I was working on a chapter today that should have been pretty easy to write. While some bad things happen in it, it’s not nearly as bad of an experience as some of the things that happened in earlier chapters. But it’s turned out to be a difficult chapter to write.

I got to about the halfway mark and felt myself getting just a little too wound up over the whole thing. I could have pushed through (and likely wound up with a second half full of me dropping the f-bomb into every sentence), but I decided to just set it aside. Obviously, I need to process those events a little more before I can write about what happened the way I want to. Maybe I’ll do better with it tomorrow. Or next week.

I think it’s better to walk away temporarily than to sacrifice my mental health to hit a daily word count goal.

You Can’t Expect Other People to “Get It”

Writing about past trauma is straight up emotionally exhausting. To me, life in general is pretty emotionally exhausting, so I’m just doubling up on it. Basically, my job right now is to re-live my own life (actually, just the worst parts of my own life.)

Even for the people who know what I’m doing, I can’t really expect them to understand why I start crying about Taylor Swift all of the sudden. (Like, how do you explain you’re crying over a doll that got packed up 16 years ago?)

Nobody else can see the memories that are playing out in my head. So, maybe I’ve just written about a particularly frightening thing that happened and my emotions are especially raw. And then someone does something extra obnoxious right after that. It can be hard to remember that the other person has no idea what kind of emotional whiplash you’re going through.

You Might Find Unexpected Things

I thought I knew my story. I lived through it, after all. What writing about it has done is give me perspective. That goes beyond just the facts of what happened.

What happened was wrong. And it was frightening. And it was traumatic.

But that’s not my whole story. There’s also love and beauty and forgiveness there, and I didn’t expect to find any of those things.

Before I started writing this book, I knew that I’d been stalked. I knew that my life had been threatened. I knew that I’d had to leave my life behind and start over. That was my story.

Now, I know it’s not just my story. It’s our story. I don’t just mean my family either. It’s a story that everyone who was involved shares. It’s the church Elder’s story. It’s the police officer’s story. It’s my friends’ story. Yeah, the things I’m writing about happened to me, but I wasn’t living on some desert island at the time (though, that probably would have made it harder to stalk me).

The difference between my story and our story might not make a lot of sense to anyone, but it’s a profound shift in the way I look at it.

If you write about your own life, you can expect to find your own surprises.

Writing in the Mud

Writing about painful experiences is dirty business. It’s hard. There’s no getting around that.

And sometimes it feels like all you’re doing is scooping mud, shifting it from one place to another.

And people might walk passed you and ask, “Why would anyone want to sit around in all that muck?”

But I hope that if you do choose to move mud around, you’ll look down one day and see some patches of green. Because you were never just moving mud. You were gardening all along and how could you expect a garden to grow if you aren’t willing to get a little dirty?

Mandatory Year-end Blog Post 2015

Well, I did some stuff this year.

I read a lot of books and a couple of them made me cry. (Not, like, wimpy tears, like tough-badass-bitch tears).

My sister and I took a trip that wound up being weirdly therapeutic and obnoxiously humid. (We both cheated on our low-sugar diet during that trip. Actually, I’m still cheating on it 6 months later… so, oops? Also, my jeans have shrunk.)

I did a lot of writing. Some of it didn’t totally suck. (Some of it totally did.)

I drove an hour just to see a giant crucifix at a Catholic shrine with my hardcore Anabaptist, ex-Catholic mother. (It was pretty great.)

Cross in the Woods

I’m too lazy to come out with a clever segue (really, what’s going to top a 28′ tall Jesus?), so here’s the top 5 list.

Top Five Most Viewed Posts

That Time a Fellow Church Member Wanted to Murder Me

I wasn’t sure what kind of reaction I’d get to posting this and almost deleted the whole thing, but writing this post was one of the best things I’ve done. It opened the door for me to work on some issues I’ve had on the back burner for a long time and I’ve heard from people who say it’s helped them not to feel like they’re alone in what they’re dealing with. I’m currently about 3/4 of the way through a first draft of a memoir that covers this period of time. I definitely wouldn’t be working on that if I hadn’t gotten so much interest and support after clicking that PUBLISH button on this post back in February (and then going, “Oh shit! What did I just do?!”) Sometimes being reckless and impulsive pays off, kids.


“I noticed something in my family’s church mailbox. It was an obituary that had been cut out of the paper. He’d replaced the person’s name with my name. The police couldn’t protect me. My church council refused to even believe I was in danger. I didn’t want to just wait around until he murdered me or my family.”


A Halfway House for Post-traumatic Church Disorder Survivors

Sometimes I feel ridiculous for being afraid of churches. Like, what, are the pews going to come to life and drown me in the baptismal? (Actually, that does sound pretty freaky…) I wrote this to both poke a little fun at myself (this is an accurate account of how I visit a church) and as a defense against all the people out there who love to get all up in my business and tell me to park it in a pew. The reaction I got to this post was surprising. I had no idea there were so many other people out there who feel the same way I do. I don’t know what the solution is, but it’s a real problem when so many people are scared of church when they’re not necessarily scared of Jesus.

14926229827_a9d4ada8c6_k“I’ve gotten some flack for not attending church, but where do you go when church isn’t a safe place?”





Faith in the Eye of a Shitstorm

I said it on Facebook, and I’ll say it here, I really think this post was popular because it has the word “shitstorm” in the tile. You are all 12-year-olds and I love you.

“I’m supposed to say those hardships strengthened my faith. That I felt closer to God. That it gave me perspective or I had some sort of epiphany. But none of that happened. I didn’t feel closer to God. I felt ignored by God.”



True Love Waits (a little while)

Hey, everyone! It’s the post about sex! (We’re all still 12, right?) The 90s Youth Group Kids are all grown up now and some of us are a little scarred by our old purity pledges.

Love By Freely Photos“We’d garbled the gospel until it sounded like purity pledges and elevator pitch testimonies. Grace wasn’t in our vocabulary.”




Why My Stalker Was Never Arrested

After I wrote the first post in February about that whole stalking situation, I spent a good chunk of 2015 exploring that time of my life and trying to figure out how it could get so bad. I’ve done a lot of homework this year. I’ve dug into theological reasons (OMG, y’all, stay away from Christian Reconstructionists), cultural reasons (I’m so glad Y2K isn’t a thing anymore), and legal reasons. When people ask me about being stalked or make comments, usually they want to know about the legal reasons, so I wrote this post to explain that side of things.

“The activity in my case escalated very quickly from harassment to death threats. His attitude moved from wanting to have me to wanting to kill me in a matter of weeks.”


Funky Caves and Seasonal Depression

I get depressed every year around this time, though I don’t call it a depression. I say “I’m in a weird mood” or “I’m in a funk”.

It generally starts around Halloween and ends sometime in January or February, which really sucks since it stretches out over the entire holiday season. You try hiding out from stressful situations during the holiday season.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m from Texas and I’ve never psychologically acclimated to the snow and lack of sunlight we get up here in the winter.

Maybe it’s because every Fall I catch the cold that doesn’t end.

Maybe it’s because I’ve had rough Fall/Winter seasons in the past, and I just expect something terrible to happen around this time of year.

All I know is it pops up every year. Some years are easier than others. I had an extra rough time last year.

It’s a good idea to practice some self-care when you know you’re about to head into a depressive season.

So, what am I doing to prepare? Oh, you know, just writing about the most horrible things that have happened to me. Because that’s healthy.

At the beginning of Lent this past year, I decided to write a memoir (I know, it sounds too hoity-toity for me, but it’s basically just a short auto-biography of a specific time in a person’s life). I wrote over 30,000 words during Lent. I wrote every day I could physically write.

I pushed through neck spams, which led to those terrible headaches, which led to sprinting to the bathroom before I threw up on the floor, which led to days spent in bed.

I recklessly pushed through painful memories, which led to me throwing a Bible, and telling my kids I needed to change my shirt so they’d leave me alone in my room for five minutes so I could have a little cry, and calling my sister one night to cry about something that did not affect me at all.

I kept trying to write at the beginning of my kids’ summer break, and I finally snapped. There was no way I could sit in the kitchen and write about receiving death threats while my kids were pestering me for just one more handful of Ruffles. I decided the best way to preserve my sanity was to take the rest of the summer off.

It was such a good move.

In July, I read through what I’d written during Lent. It was just awful. It wasn’t even mediocre. The stuff I’m writing now is mediocre. The stuff from before? That shit was standing in the snow with threadbare mittens, staring in the window, hoping Mediocre would throw it a crust.

I know why it was so terrible. I was stressed out about what the people will think. I was writing too fast. I was pushing myself too hard. I was forcing myself to re-experience all of these emotions I’d spent a good half of my life stamping down. I expected myself to experience a billion different repressed emotions at the same time, and then write something beautiful.

By this time I was way too invested to just give up. So, I decided to completely scrap that first draft and start over.

But, first, I spent August binge-watching Doctor Who because I needed to get out of that pit and breathe for a while.

In the middle of August, I took a break from the Doctor and wrote one chapter of my second draft. This time, instead of starting at the beginning and diving straight into all that unpleasantness, I started at the end. I wrote about where I am now, compared to where I was then. The writing wasn’t great (it was still a first draft of this particular chapter), but holy crap was it better that the stuff I wrote during Lent.

After that, I took the rest of August off. I taught my kids how to play Go Fish and War. Then, I had a long talk with one of them about how to lose without causing a scene.

I wrote another chapter a couple of weeks after school started back up. And another chapter almost a week after that.

Some days, I sit down and I can crank out 3,000 words. Some days, I can handle 100. Some days, I can’t handle any.

I’ve given myself permission not to be a martyr to this project. If I’m not emotionally in a good place one day, I’ll skip writing. Or I’ll write about something else that’s not as emotionally demanding.

During Lent, someone suggested maybe I should stop writing if it was bothering me so much.

The thing is, yes, it bothers me sometimes. Sometimes it makes me feel defeated and traumatized all over again. But, sometimes it makes me feel victorious. Sometimes it feels like a song. Sometimes it feels like giving birth to myself (which honestly strikes me as more than a little creepy, but still). Sometimes it feels like a middle finger to the world, screaming, “You tried to take me down, but I’ll still here, bitch!”

My sister and I went cave exploring a few years ago. We only brought one flashlight with us, and of course, it went out when we were about halfway into the Ape Caves lava tube. Luckily, the tube is just a straight shot in or out, without any side passages to wander down. Writing my story is like that. It’s like walking down a dark tunnel, toward a light I know is there. I just have to move slowly, and try not to trip on my way out.

I think it’s a good idea to keep writing through this season of funk I’m heading into. The pain is going to be there no matter what, but you know what? It feels good to do something productive with the funk.

Maybe I’ll write everything down and just bury it in my drawer. Maybe I’ll try to get it published. I’m not going to worry about that right now. That’s the kind of pressure that helped trip me up last time. For right now, it just feels good be productive and use the pain instead of letting it use me.

Don't worry. We made it out of the cave.

Pictured: People who are not professional spelunkers. (Don’t worry. We made it out of the cave.)


We Tell Stories

Dad walks in and strides straight to the Commodore 128. He never changes out of his work clothes before dinner.

I’ve finally learned not to attack him the second he walks in the door, so I walk into my bedroom and shift the piles of papers under my nightstand for a couple of minutes, an eternity for a 9-year-old.

I pick up the piece of notebook paper that’s sitting on top of the stack. I pinch it at both top corners and hold it at arm’s length as I walk back toward the dining room. I don’t want to wrinkle it.

Ground beef sizzles in the kitchen.

I stand beside the heavy computer desk Dad built out of solid doors. He isn’t typing right now.

“I made you a book cover,” I say and hold out the paper.

It’s a rough drawing of an old, bearded man and a boy. The man sits on a log and has his mouth open while the boy sits on the ground, looking attentive. In balloon letters, I’ve written “The Grand Master of Lore” at the top.

He takes the picture.

“Do you want to use it?”

“It’s good. It really goes with the story. I might change the title, though.”

“I can erase that part and write it over again.”

He keeps the picture on his desk.

We are not a literary family.

There’s nothing special about us. Dad works in production and Mom stays home. We’re like every other family in this dusty, country town. We’re just as unwealthy and uncultured as anyone else around here. A little better off than some, a little worse off than others.

We are not a literary family.

Except, we are.

The room that should be our dining room is full of books. We call it the library. There’s no Tolstoy or Woolf here, but it’s still a potential avalanche of words.

We are not a literary family.

Yet, my mother writes poetry and my father writes fantasy. My bedtime stories are The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe and The Iliad.

We have no pedigrees, no connections, no education.

We do have words, though.

We write down the things we’d never dare to say out loud. We transform ugly moments into lyrics that float. We can escape the mesquite trees and cracked mud to go anywhere we want. To any time we want. Nothing is too fantastical.

I don’t quite do that yet. I write about talking hippos and magical giraffes that escape from the zoo. I write poems about fat cats and apples.

I may be too little to ride these rapids, but I see how powerful they are. How powerful the people who learn how to navigate them are. I want to be part of that, even if it’s just drawing a book cover.

I want to be one of those people.


“Mommy, does your main character have any pets?”

I turn away from the monitor to answer my 9-year-old daughter. “I haven’t given her any.”

“I think she should have an alien dog as a pet.”

She knows just enough about the novel I’m working on to know my main character isn’t quite human. Though, an alien dog wouldn’t exactly work.

“Maybe,” I reply.

She leaves for a while and I try to re-focus after the interruption. I shouldn’t have tried to write while the kids were home.

She comes back a few minutes later, holding a sheet of copier paper in front of her. She presents it to me.

“I drew a dog for your character. See? It has bat wings. Do you like it?”

I laugh and she scowls at me. She thinks I’m making fun of her. I’m not.

“It’s good. It really goes with the story.”