About Writing a Book

Writing a book is like life. You wake up in the morning, planning the day and considering the hours and schedule of events. Then, boom—it all changes! Of all the questions I've received about?Stewards of Humanity.?There are two that are consistent. "What is like to write a book?" And "what inspired you to write it?" The first question is the easiest to answer. "It was hard!" When I was in high school, the Guidance Counsellor recommended I take a typing class. Typing! I was seventeen and, on my way, to joining the Marines. I couldn't see the link. Now, twenty-five words a minute, at best, is laborious. Yet that is just a mechanical consideration.????

Initially, I worked hard to craft the exact word or phrase to describe a person or event and struggled to speak to a memory without allowing its emotion. My efforts sounded like the directions to hook up a household smart plug to Alexa; sequential, life-less, and aloof. Yet even in this context, at times, the words flowed. The images were right in front of me, and every memory was as poignant as yesterday. But mostly, it was hard. The recollections were there, but they were cloudy and tough to describe in a way that made sense. However, that was okay because, in retrospect, I realized my initial goal was just to write a book. The words were simply a means to fill up the space between the covers.?

Bird by Bird

Finally, one day I looked at the computer screen and thought, "that's it, I'm done." For a fleeting moment, it was a good feeling. "Wow! I wrote a book." That sentiment lasted until I began the first edit. Then, as I reached back to the opening sentences and paragraphs and reviewed those first words, a cold, clammy feeling enveloped any sense of accomplishment,?"all this is barely literate—writer! who am I kidding?"?But I steeled myself and fell back on what Anne Lamott says in her book,?"Bird to Bird"?about Shitty First Drafts. For my early draft, I would use another descriptor, but "shitty" will suffice. Basically, Lamott says,?"you gotta get words on paper to have something to build from."?

I like that sentiment because it not only speaks to writing, but to living. No matter how many positive quotes I've read about finding success in life. There is one that stands out,?"There is only one thing that makes a dream impossible to achieve: the fear of failure."?The foundation of writing and living is the recognition that you must grow and develop based on experience. But most importantly, to try! It's so comfortable to sit back and reflect and dream, but to get there (whatever that might be). First, you must get in the arena to find it.

Finally, after numerous personal edits, I found a professional editor. That was a big step. I wrestled with whether I needed to do it. First, it is not inexpensive. But mostly I thought,?"Hey, this book is okay, why go to the trouble and expense."?If there is any indication of how na?ve I was, the previous sentence summed it up.?The editor?was the smartest move I made in the entire process. The technical aspects of what she did were professional and essential. But what she told me about the book and my style of writing was vital. At some point, in our early conversations, I made a statement that if I could have managed it. I never wanted to use the?personal pronouns, I?or?me.?I wanted the reader to focus on the?Stewards;?I envisioned myself as their storyteller. Her counsel was a reader wants to bond with an author. In the case of?Stewards, to?see all of this through my eyes. Her message was,?"how did you feel in the midst of these events?"?

“Nice Try, Bob”

I thanked her and immediately moved the book to the "too hard" category.?I didn't quite understand why, but I wasn't going to go down that path. I was tired of writing, editing, and listening to other ideas. I made a folder for the manuscript on my desktop, ensured it was linked to the cloud, and saved a draft to a thumb drive. That was it! It's over. I wrote a book and possibly, perhaps, conceivably; if the sun, moon, planets, and cosmos appropriately aligned, I'd revisit it. Until then,?"nice try, Bob—move on."

At about this time, I started therapy at the Veterans Administration for complex PTSD. Over the preceding years, my terror dreams, reclusiveness, and levels of anger had significantly increased. I was functioning, but there was no joy in my life. I was judgmental and angry, but not about others; it was focused on myself. Ageism, retirement, envy, and increasing pain from war wounds combined to a seething rage that was just under the surface. I would lash out at the simplest things, like a screw that refused to stay in the hole while I used an electric drill. The result could be the screw being thrown against a wall with a stream of expletives.?

The diagnosis of PTSD did not surprise me. Still, I never made the link between the book and the increasing severity of the illness. I assumed the cause of the PTSD began and ended because of service in Vietnam, Iraq, and Somalia. To state the obvious, as an infantry soldier, war is very close and personal. I'm not sure how I discounted nearly two decades of humanitarian aid work.

Now, I realize, it is cumulative. It started in the Marines, and aid work allowed me to continue from one humanitarian emergency to another. Somehow amid that complexity, I knew how to function. It became my norm. My problem was trying to integrate into traditional normalcy. Thus, when I retired from humanitarian work I was lost!

As the therapy for PTSD continued for nearly two years, I understood how much aid work affected me. As a Marine, other than my time in Somalia, my association with civilians was minimal. In most cases, they tried to get out of the way of the fighting. Too often, this is not how the media or entertainment portrays Americans in combat but trying to minimize the damage done to civilians is paramount. However, regardless of the nationalities of the combatants, civilians are the ones who suffer the most. Particularly as episodes of genocide and ethnic cleansing seem to be increasing.

As an American service member, I always had the aggregate of US power around me. The weapons, air power, logistics, medical support, and communications were there to support me, an infantry soldier. In the epilogue to Stewards, I discuss, as an aid worker, this degree of support was not available. We lived and operated amid the havoc, in much the same way as the people suffering from the chaos. It wasn't the danger that was debilitating; it was the constant witnessing of starvation, injustice, and differing types of genocide that caused the greatest assault on my stability. There are only so many mental rooms you can sweep these memories into and close the door. Eventually, you run out of space.

Out of the Blue

As all this awareness increased, I opened the book and started again. In addition to the help at the Veterans Administration, I gained a silent partner on this journey. He is lying next to me as I write this.?Blue?is a ninety-pound Labrador Retriever service dog from?Southeastern Guide Dogs. From the moment he came into my life, everything started to get better. Over the three and half years we've been together, I've pondered the question. How does his presence make such an impact?

I think it is a sense of protection. Not in the sense of physical security. Where my dreams used to be filled with violence, killing and death, and most of all a fear of something unseen stalking me. Now, no matter how terrible or frightening it is, he appears amid the carnage. Often, it is not a visual image but an unseen reassurance. I know he is there. In a clinical sense, does he sense my discomfort when I'm sleeping and shifts his weight or body position next to me? I don't know, but I have the concrete knowledge that I am not alone and am "protected."?

His companionship steadied me. Absolutely and unequivocally the therapy was essential, but there is something profound in experiencing the love he gives to me. And the changeless state of happiness that surrounds him, he enjoys life, and his joy is infectious. With that gift, I opened the vault that housed the book and started again. Blue sensed this new passion. He seemed to join my enthusiasm. In the mornings, when we went to my office, he charged up the stairs; went to the workplace and was waiting with his tail wagging like an airplane propeller. As I worked, I could hear his gentle and rhythmic snores. They were comforting. After several hours, he would decide it’s time for a break and I could feel a cold nose the size of a large walnut nudge my arm and I knew it was time to step away from the intensity.

Stewards of Humanity

Within the first paragraph of this review, I looked at the title and knew it was wrong. Until that moment, I never thought about Stewards of Humanity. It just appeared and when it did, I knew this would be the book I was meant to write. So, I dove into it, and my first revelation was how much of the manuscript was selfish. It was a litany of the perceived injustices of Presidents who allowed the genocides in Bosnia and Somalia to continue. What various aid agencies and the United Nations should have done or not done. How the international community and donors failed to provide the necessary resources to help struggling populations. The book was my personal inventory of perceived failures.?

At first, I was amazed at my anger. Although I believe the outrage was justified in many cases, but not the visceral depth I portrayed. I realized the anger was with myself for not solving the problems. Obviously, that was impossible, but there was a sense of personal victimization that unsettled me. However, the next step made me appreciate the therapy and the calmness Blue has given me. It was a simple revelation. Stewards was written to tell stories of remarkable people. Not to use those narratives as a guise to perpetuate my own views. This book is about honoring people who sacrificed a great deal and, for too many, their lives, for the greater good of humanity. That term,?"the greater good of humanity,"?may sound pretentious, but it's not. It accurately describes a group of people for whom altruism is not a goal, hypothetical, or nonsense ideal.?

Honoring Extraordinary People

It is real and a viable thread. The?Stewards?I met and wrote about are not na?ve or unrealistic. Each of them is pragmatic and down-to-earth. None are saints, most are tolerant, a couple can be tough to be around, but all of them lived in extreme settings of deprivation, worked long hours surrounded by high-risk conditions, made life-and-death decisions, and struggled with the demands for additional supplies that were never enough to meet the need. Each day, they confronted the moral challenge of deciding who does and does not get assistance. Their common bond is that rather than shrinking from deprivation and injustice. They walked into it armed only with a desire to assist rather than withdraw.?

What do I think about the book? For me, I accomplished my primary goal. After witnessing the people whose stories, I recount—I was compelled to lift their stories and share them—to honor their work and remember those who died or were killed.

I did that but did not expect what happened when I allowed myself to write about how I felt and relive the pain of these events. It was therapeutic. I crossed a bridge between what was then and what is now. That is another gift Stewards?gave me—my way home.?

Read more blog posts on my website: https://www.robertseamusmacpherson.com/blog