I don't know, but I think I'm about to learn! For the past twenty-three years, I've lived with a project that was, more or less, like one of my children. Every artist, writer or composer who sweats blood and tears over a painting, a book or a composition eventually feels like this labor of love is an offspring. A child. Their child.

Sister of Silence has been just such a child, for all of these long years. It's been shoved to the back of a drawer, relegated to the bottom of a box or buried beneath a mountain of books and journals, and yet, somehow, I was never able to let it go. Just drop it. Forget about it, and walk away.

I had something to say, yes, that was certainly part of it. I had a story to tell—another reason I would, from time to time, dig out the most current revision and began afresh. But it was more than that: it was something bigger than me, with a life of its own, and I didn't feel I had the right to not make it available for other people.

Because, the truth is, Sister of Silence is a book about shattering silence, about helping women and children, and parents and families. It's about education and sterilization and every topic you could imagine, but which you might not bring up during "polite" conversation.

They say people who become paralyzed and do nothing to act, when action needs to happen, do so from fear. One thing many people are afraid of is success. I am one of those people. As a journalist, I love telling other people's stories. I've been doing that since high school. That love, that singular occupation that no blogger could ever understand, had he not worked his way up the ranks at a newspaper office, is something that allowed me to stand in the background. I was content there.

I don't like being in the limelight—I never have. But Sister of Silence has forced me to stand here, and lately I've learned that this might be something I have to do on a regular basis. I do so only because I know I've got something to say that people need, that they want to hear. I know this because after finally setting my book to free, to succeed or fail on its own, I'm receiving deeply-moving, personal responses from the readers who've gotten to read Sister of Silence.

With those responses have come other . . . invitations and opportunities. None which I can mention now—but which I will, as soon as I can. That's why I know this train is not going to slow down anytime soon. I just hope I can keep up!

Posted by Daleen at 01:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

This is my life from twenty-six years ago. These are also the opening words from my book, Sister of Silence. My only son suggested I post them here, to share with other people who may be able to learn from them. I'm rather hesitant--after all, there is some distance between an author and her readers, when those readers buy the book online or in a bookstore, and read it in the privacy of their own home. It wasn't even until 2007, when Jeannette Walls (The Glass Castle) gave me some advice that helped me realize I had to be truthful enough to include this part of my life in the book. Because, let's face it, it's another thing entirely to open up the book and share it with the world. That being said, let me just say that postpartum depression coupled with extreme abuse combined to create the feelings I experienced that led to these opening words:

"White knuckles clenched the crib rail as I stood looking down at my newborn. Leaning over, I lifted the sleeping bundle and held it against my breast, feeling the softness of new skin as he pulled tiny legs up against his body. The small silky head turned as he continued breathing slow and evenly, and I felt the whisper of his warm breath against the pillow my neck provided.

Cradling him lovingly, I slowly walked over to the open window, held out my arms, and let go."

To order, please go to http://nellieblybooks.com/sister-of-silence.html.

Posted by Daleen at 11:06 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

If anything proves that "the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry," it's a lapse of 17 days since my last post. How on earth do bloggers do it, anyway? Or Tweeters, for that matter? Aside from figuring out the lingo needed to tweet, how do they find time to text (via cell phone) or pound out (via keyboard) a snippet of anything, several times an hour? I can't do it.

I'm left wondering how short their attention span is, as a result of what appears to be a never-ending flow of interruptions in their daily routine. Once upon a time, I would schedule my day around chunks of time that lasted at least an hour. Usually more. Growing older, and wiser, I learned the wisdom of working on my to-do list while I waited in line at the supermarket or bank. But I stop at allowing everyone anywhere to step into my personal space while I'm trying to concentrate and accomplish a task--whatever that task may be.

I don't think the constant stream of interruptions are good for us. I think it's leading to a less patient group of people who, instead of craving time out, expect to be hit in the face with the next new thing to know. That's because now, instead of thinking or planning or jotting down an important idea while waiting in line--at Disney theme parks, apparently--people are being entertained. I heard it here just the other day.

Resolutions have never been my thing, new year or not. But I will try to post here more frequently. You might want to try to slow down a bit, though, before you're overloaded with so much stimulation your brain explodes.

Posted by Daleen at 05:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)