Can we use words to heal? Beyond the wanting of accountability from others but through the telling of our own stories? Is it a thing? Is it a way for justice to finally be served?

I have been using the written word to deal with trauma for a long time. I imagine some of you are the same.

When I share with people what I am writing—a true crime memoir about losing my son to homicide, they often gasp, followed by either uncomfortable silence or some expression of how brave I am. Whether true or not, sitting down at my computer everyday doesn’t feel like an act of bravery even though at times it scares the shit out of me. I’d venture as far as saying that my efforts are somewhat self-serving because I have to get this story out of my body. I have to get the sleepless nights, rattling thoughts, slamming ptsd and panic disorder up and out—down through my fingertips—and onto the page.

The writing began within weeks of Josiah’s murder long before his remains were found. I spent those early days scouring social media, fielding phone calls and private messages, collecting and passing on tips to law enforcement while living in a constant state of hyper vigilance amidst chaos and despair. My writings clearly expressed the desperation of my situation. I used them as cries for help by sharing them online. The unintended result was that my words mobilized the public in a way that wouldn’t allow Josiah to be forgotten. I effectively wrote him into the hearts of others during an era of too much information, too much trauma, too many shootings and too many missing people. Yet somehow in the midst of too much of everything, the impression of him stayed.

By late Spring 2020, just a few months into the pandemic, I felt compelled to compile those early writings into a book by tying them together with a silky narrative. I employed the help of a writing coach, someone I had met years prior at a sweet little Italian restaurant in the Bay Area where I once worked. With her guidance, I spent the first Covid-Summer banging on the keys of a bluetooth keyboard in front of my aging iPad. I managed to get 13,000 words written before Josiah’s remains were found in August of 2020.

At that point, the timeline of my writing lurched forward, traveling straight through to the then-present moment, leaving the better part of the previous year in the dust. I was so moved by what was happening—by both the horror and the joy of what felt like victory at the time—that I couldn’t not write about it. I kept going and got another 46,000 words written along with many other individual pieces that I thought deserved a place somewhere in the book. By then, I had about 80,000 words in a working first draft.

After that, I took a break. I needed one, but eventually the pull to get it written drew me back. Only this time, with a slightly different direction, using those early writings to help guide a second draft.

This past weekend I finished and polished Chapter 14. It gave me a hell of a time. I often tell myself, If I can just get through this part, the next chapter will go more smoothly. I am frequently wrong, but I keep going.

You may wonder, why?

Josiah mattered, of course, one million times, Yes.

He Mattered.

But beyond that absolutely undeniable, loud fact, I am writing Remember the Birds, because it will not leave me alone at night.

I have to get it out of my body. I have to advocate for him. I have to keep saying his name, asking the questions and seeking justice even if in my own way.

In an effort to get it published, I have finally joined Twitter due to an onslaught of pressure that I need to have a presence there to help secure an agent and pursue traditional publishing. The last few days, my feed has been ablaze with the most recent school shooting in Nashville and the problem with so many dying by gunfire in our country. My son did not die by an AR-15 but by a single shot from a .22 caliber rifle to the head. It’s hard not to want justice—for those who have been killed and for the people left behind, for the children who are terrified every morning when they get dropped off at school and for the parents who unknowingly wave goodbye for the last time.

It seems timely to have just finished Chapter 14 which contains the memory of our last goodbye. The last hug, the last kiss, the last wave. The next time I would physically lay eyes on him—or a part of him—would be his skull with a bullet hole through it lying in a cardboard box. I wouldn’t wish that experience on anyone.

Due to the events of this past year, I have been forced to accept that the only justice that may come is through my own voice, my own fingertips, my own determination to tell Josiah’s story.

If you have stories inside of you that need to be told, tell them. Scratch them down on dinner napkins, write them in your journals, tattoo their names on your bodies, do whatever you have to because ultimately,

You matter. Your stories matter. They have the power to heal.

I write every morning, Monday thru Friday, with the London Writer’s Salon, an online community rich with stories and people from around the world who meet at 8 am in four different timezones, four different times a day. It might just be the community you are looking for.

If you would like to support me, subscribe to this blog, follow my Remember the Birds page on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter.

If you would like to read some of the early writings from when Josiah was first murdered, you can find them on the When Grief Speaks tab and you can check out the original Help Bring Josiah Home Facebook page here.

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