Introduction:

Are writers made or born? And, at what point does a writer call themselves a writer? I suppose the shaky beginnings are subjective. Once a printed bound copy of work exists, the title of writer is often given even if that printed work is atrociously written. It doesn’t matter, physical presence gives credibility. Some people take the title of writer. Some people earn the title of writer. But, some just find themselves in situations which compel a written work, and a writer is made.

Maybe I was born to write. The desire definitely existed. But, desire does not always equal talent. Many examples of modern art prove this concept. The most important part of a writer’s life is when they realize that they not only have a voice, but they also have a medium in which to express themselves. The written word is powerful if its energy can be harnessed -nuclear fusion power comes to mind right now. The ability to string words together to paint a mental and emotional picture is truly an art.

The story never just starts with an empty page, though. For many that put pen to paper, they have been inspired or traumatized by an event, person, or even a dream. And, the natural way for them to relay this event is though the written word. Live story telling is another art, which I am poor at. My mind races too quickly for coherent in person story telling. So, I write. I need pause. I need the ability to separate my thoughts.

Is this what a born writer does? During a traumatic event, are they are not only consumed with safety and survival, but is their mind also racing with words? Is some subsystem in their brain constantly stringing random sentences, remembering snippets of insight, or finding an apt description perfectly capturing the moment?

Then when the triggering event is over, the slide projector flashback of memories often jumps around, independent of any sort or time-line. Verbal communication almost seems barbaric -a crude way of retelling the event. But, it is much quicker, and has its purpose. Once the fog clears, the mess is cleaned, and everyone can breathe deeply again, the pen hits the page in a fury.

Driving Home.

Part 1:

Annie, are you OK
Will you tell us that you’re OK
There’s a sign at the window
That he struck you
A crescendo, Annie
He came into your apartment
He left the bloodstains on the carpet
Then you ran into the bedroom
You were struck down
It was your doom

Annie,you OK
You OK
you OK, Annie
Annie,you OK
You OK
Are you OK, Annie
Annie,you OK
You OK
you OK, Annie
You’ve been hit by
You’ve been struck by
A smooth criminal

-Aliens Ant Farm

4pm, June 18th 2010, I am in my car following Emm back to her apartment. The hairs on my arm instantly rise as the song “Smooth Criminal” beings to play on the radio -as if on cue. I take a deep breath. The gravel road beneath my wheels is once again a comfort. And, the forest and I have a new understanding of each other. As a child, I was afraid to go near the tree line after dark. Most children, not excluding me, are afraid of monsters in the dark. Closets, under the bed, and especially dark basements are usually the top concerns. However, while those places always seemed to have invisible scary demons lurking, I could always tell myself I was being silly. Even at 7 years old, I knew I really had nothing to fear. But, the forest was different.

In the woody Oklahoma country, the coyotes were loud. Their screaming just below my bedroom window at midnight made my blood run cold. During the day, the coyotes were invisible, and I would often run though the forest as a barefoot curious little girl without a care. But, just like my chickens now, as soon as the sun started to get low in the sky, I was on the porch if not inside. After dark, the forest became a place of nightmares and unknown screeching dangerous things.

We moved away from Oklahoma and the coyotes while I was still young, but the forest still has an eeriness to it that never went away. I learned to respect the forest, and learned to work with the forest. But after dark, my respect for the forest involved staying away. In 2009, when my husband and I moved to an early 19th century cabin in the middle of a wild forest, we felt safe. One road in and one road out; the rest was dense forest full of briers. No one knew where we lived unless we explicitly told them. Not even the police.

A new understanding and respect for the dark forest came when I was the one calling upon the darkness for a favor. For the first time in my life, I was running into the darkness for safety and not away from it. For once, my fear was not with the forest. Humans are much scarier than a dark forest, especially a forest without coyotes screaming and likely without bears or mountain lions. My thoughts keep returning to the dark dense forest which for the first time in my life became not only a friend, but a protector.

Even when the day turned sour many hours prior to the forest entanglement, I never expected the events of the evening to unfurl in such a scattered, harassing, and urgent manner. I was glad to be in my car, safe, and following Emm back to her empty apartment. This eventful story started about 24 hours earlier. Around 4:30pm on June 17th 2010, just after my strawberry shake was in my belly, I decided to drive to a bookstore in Maryland. I wasn’t half way there and I got a frantic call from Emm. I was aware she had been having some domestic problems with her boyfriend, and I was aware he had some prison history and was on parole, but I did not know any other details about his criminal past – and neither did Emm. She never did a background check on Joe after learning of his prison history and current parole; the only history she knew of him was what he told her.

Also, Joe had also recently stolen Emm’s jewelry and checkbook get money for cocaine, but was supposedly clean now. Supposedly. QB and I felt we had to help Emm since she didn’t have anyone else offering help, but our instincts also told us we only knew the tip of the iceberg about this Joe guy. We were on full alert long before Emm seemed to realize the severity of the situation. When she called, I wasn’t sure what was going to happen.

I answered the phone.

“I just ran away from home”, Emm informed me in a panicky unsure voice. “I have Voo –her dog- in the car, and I don’t know what to do.”

I told her to meet me at the cabin, and we would figure out what we needed to do. The police should have been involved about a month or two prior, but Joe had scared her from going to the police. However, he realized he was losing his power over her. She was becoming close friends with QB and I, and we were “influencing” her. Instead of just trying to talk her out of going to the police, he was now keeping her in the apartment (only letting go out for work), depriving her of sleep, and being constantly physically confrontational (without actually hitting her) as a means of distracting her. She has bad anxiety, and he knew how to keep her mind distracted. If she was at the apartment, he could keep her isolated. A third floor apartment with one door makes it all too easy for a large aggressive male to block the only exit from a small mild mannered female. But this day, she caught him off guard and fled with quickness -barely having time to grab her phone, purse, and dog.

She took longer than expected to arrive at the cabin. I called QB immediately and informed him of the situation.

He said, “This all would happen once I leave town”, in a very concerned voice. His immediate concern was for my safety. And, knowing what little we knew about Joe, his apparent stability problems and angry harassing tendencies were very worrisome.

A few minutes later, Emm arrived. She was obviously shaken. She told me she took a few wrong turns because she was so frazzled. We sat down at started talking; I told her we needed to go the police station immediately. Between the theft, drugs, and holding her in her apartment, she needed police protection, and he needed to be put back in prison.

She agreed, and said she was ready. I tried to express the seriousness of the situation and told her we needed to ask for a protective order. And, since I was concerned for my own safely, I also asked her if Joe knew QB was out of town. “Yes”, she said shyly. Not good. My concern just doubled. Joe knows where we live. In late February, not long after we met Emm, she met Joe and they both came over one evening for dinner. QB and I didn’t think he was a good fit for her, and didn’t really like him; his body language was secretive and defensive. But, we didn’t know her or him well enough to intervene without more than a hunch.

We were ready to leave after a short 15 minute discussion. Emm needed no persuasion. By this time, Joe had already called her phone a couple dozen times, and left a few verbally abusive text messages. We left her car in our driveway, and started into town. We pulled into the police station 5 minutes before 6pm.

My expectations for the immediate future were completely blank. I had hopes and fears, but weren’t focusing on things like that. We needed to plan. I had never been in a situation like this before; my mind quickly switched to problem solving mode. We had to get help, and stay safe. My mind was frantically trying to think not only of questions for the police, but also how to help Emm convey the severity of the situation with her distress. The police didn’t want to hear ME talk. SHE had to tell the story. Remember earlier what I said about live story telling? Yeah…

I was also worried Joe would learn we went to the police. He is on parole. He has no leniency. One wrong move and he is back in jail. He desperately does not want to go back to jail (although his piss poor actions would seem to contradict this). Now, here I am with Emm, playing a direct role in putting him back in prison. Of all the people that would help her do this, QB and I are the prime suspects. And, QB is out of town.

After waiting for almost an hour, a police office came in and talked to us. After this, the evening started to move quickly.

To Be Continued…