It takes one person to tell her story. It takes a village to hear its meaning and give it wings. As we approach this North American Holiday of Thanksgiving, I want to express my deep gratitude for my amazing global community of family, friends, colleagues, neighbors and so many others who have supported and encouraged me in the publishing of my memoir: When a Toy Dog Became a Wolf and the Moon Broke Curfew.
I had always thought of writers as lone journeyers ensconced in cave-like spaces and small rooms with clicking typewriters (yes, I am that old). There may still be some truth to that image, but this year has taught me that it takes a village to publish a book and give meaning to the story. Of course, I spent many hours alone with my MacBook Air, writing and rewriting my text until it finally took its current shape and form. But it would never have left the file on my desktop named “When a Toy Dog. . .”, if it had not been for the strong support and encouragement from family members, friends, colleagues, and lovers of story.
As many of you know, the love of story runs in my blood. I absorbed the magic of storytelling as a little girl mesmerized by her daddy’s bedtime tales of heroes and heroines, and of mythical lands where creatures could change their shape at will. It’s not surprising that one of my earliest jobs was secretary to the Chief of Staff of the newsroom of an Australian newspaper. The magic of the click-clack of the newsroom typewriters set my imagination soaring with all the stories being sent out into the world.
As a young mother in my early twenties, my children clamored for me to tell them bedtime stories, as I had done with my dad.
“I really can’t remember any right now,” I would sometimes tell them at the end of a tiring day, to which they’d laugh and say: “Oh, mommy, just make one up,” and I would, as they listened with glee and added their own imaginative twists to the story.
When I joined the many other women of my generation who went back to school in the 1970s, I submitted stories to the college paper and experienced the thrill of seeing my imagination in print. I embarked on a career as therapist and was inevitably drawn to the study of depth-psychology with its emphasis on the timelessness of our world’s great myths, those universal tales with immortal characters and sweeping plots that amplify our mortal human twists of choice and fate.
There was just one story that I tried to silence, the true story of my own childhood. But if I wanted to help others work through their trauma, I needed to acknowledge it. With encouragement from family, friends and colleagues I wrote down my memories and shaped them into a manuscript, but I still hesitated publishing it. It felt self-indulgent, or maybe it was just too real. Then I saw neo-Nazis wearing swastikas in Charlottesville, Virginia, on my television screen and witnessed the escalating rhetoric of hatred and discrimination. I realized I had no choice. Those of us who have survived violence and cruelty, no matter where or when, have an obligation to share our stories of endurance, strength and resilience.
Nevertheless, writer friends who supported me spoke a word of caution. The publishing process would be hard work. I smiled at their warnings. The manuscript had been written. An editor had scoured it and made sure that my English-learned words were Americanized. It was accepted for Indie-publication by She Writes Press. The hard work had been done. Right? I had no idea! In blissful ignorance I dove into the publishing details of metadata, first pages, bisacs, blurbs, cover design, back cover bio, author photo, publicists, book launch, book reviews, author interviews, and more. As this year nears its end, I am exhausted, exhilarated, overwhelmed, thrilled and in total awe of all those who have the courage to write and publish their stories.
Since its publication on August 27, my memoir When a Toy Dog Became a Wolf and the Moon Broke Curfew has found its way to bookshelves in Indie bookstores and on Goodreads and Amazon. I have discussed its contents on radio interviews, podcasts, and at schools, houses of worship and gatherings of wonderful book readers and other writers. I have been honored to talk about the courage, strength and resilience I saw in my mother and others who resisted Nazi oppression, even in the face of death. They showed me the woman I wanted to become.
I marvel at how my little book is growing wings to fly around the world. It has even found its way to the Netherlands and Australia. But it could not have done so on its own. It needed the skills and hard work of the whole global village. You know who you are. Some of you are even on Facebook. You read my manuscript, you supported me in going with the Indie Publisher. You told me my story had importance and needed to be in print. You helped me with my photos. You commiserated and let me whine, when the promotional journey in the digital cyber world caused a major traffic jam in my brain. You insisted that my poor old gray cells could master the daunting weird world of social media. You kept supporting and encouraging me. You bought my book, and then bought more copies for your friends. You wrote reviews (please keep writing them). You attended my presentations. A beloved cousin even read and praised my Advance Reader copy as his body was preparing him to die. Thank you, my dearest Cor, I will miss you and your wise sweet words to me so terribly.
This has been a challenging year for many people. We have all witnessed too many wanton cruel deaths, painful physical and emotional sufferings endured by dear friends, and a growing threat to our democracy and the health of our planet on which our grandchildren and their children’s future depends. At the same time, I was privileged in September to share my story with hundreds of middle and high school students at a wide variety of schools. These young people, who face challenges to our planet today that I could not even have imagined when I was the age they are now, listened with authentic interest and attentive engagement. They told me that my war story of resistance and resilience under Nazi oppression gave them hope. Their courage made me weep and gave me hope in return. They asked me to write in their notebooks. The girls gave me hugs. The boys shook my hand. Overwhelmed by their enthusiasm, I fell in love with all of them.
So, even as predatory forces once again attempt to spread their rhetoric of hatred and superiority, I give thanks for the goodness, hope and courage that still resides in the human heart and soul. When my husband and I celebrate Thanksgiving with family in our personal way this year, I will bow in gratitude to all those who dare to tell their stories of resistance and resilience and all those who take the time to listen, really listen. It takes one person to tell a story. It takes a village to listen and give it wings to fly.
Happy Thanksgiving to All.
In gratitude, Hendrika.
November 2019.