All it took for me to clam up and not be able to write for a few weeks was a friend's comment. A former nun in the same convent, she reacted to my memoirs by asking me why in the world I wanted to go digging around through the dregs of my convent past. Her accusation that I failed to portray events the way they actually happened bothered me most. Instead of defending myself, I shut down and pulled away from her. I felt betrayed and stopped writing.
Later, I wished I had simply told her that my writing is--and can only ever be--my own version of what happened in my nineteen years as a nun. Not one of the nearly two hundred women there had the same experience. Though we were there together and were subjected to the same treatment, we each reacted differently.
My book is my viewpoint--and very much my own truth.
I have to believe in my own self and my own truth. So now I climb upward and onward once again. Even though it sometimes seems I'll never get there, I'm determined to reach the summit.
