Writing Your Trauma Without Too Much Drama--Part 3

Ronda Miller

Part 3 is the conclusion of my interview with Ronda Miller. 

Question 8:  Do you have any other thoughts about this kind of writing that we haven't covered?

Ronda:  I've learned a lot about my strengths, and that of other survivors, from telling my story and hearing theirs. Sharing helps us find ways to heal that we may not think of on our own.

People also ask questions which may lead to an entirely different process. We can get stuck with an idea, or opinion, about why an event occurred, or how we should respond to a traumatic event, then we find out there are a multitude of human condtions and reactions to them other than our own. It can be most enlightening.

I've been greatly rewarded, while sharing my story, to have someone thank me because they think it is an important topic of discussion or they experienced a similar trauma.

It can be important and helpful to ask permission of the family of a deceased loved one if you're writing about them. I have found it's also good to give yourself permission to write about a trauma.

 One of my sayings is: I don't write poetry, it 'rights' me.

Question 9:  You will be teaching a workshop on this subject in October. Where and When?

Ronda:  I'll be presenting this topic Sunday morning, October 15th at the State Kansas Authors Club Convention in Coffeyville, KS. The workshop is for the general public as well as writers of all ages and genres. 

Thank you, Ronda for some very interesting and pertinent information on writing about traumas in our life. If any reader has a question for Ronda, put it in the Comments section and I will forward it to her.

Here is a sample of the kind of writing Ronda has discussed with us. I can attest that she is a fine poet, who has two books of her poetry published. MoonStain and WaterSigns  She is working on a memoir titled Gun Memories Of A Stone-Eyed Cold Girl. 

MoonStain

Barn doors pushed shut

an indication something worth

investigating was within. It took

all my strength to open, slide

to close again. New birth

in pungent urgency led

me to the still born calf

quite warm. I nestled

in the hay beside it, placed

my arms around its neck.

I knew what death was, heard

whispers of my mother's

not long before. I could hear

the mother cow's loud bawling

from outside the back barn door.

I felt the spirit of the calf lift,

swirl around me, disappear. It

grew cold. I felt damp fear.

I sat in the caliginous stall

until my sister came, took

my hand, ran with me past

my grandmother's moonlit

garden of hollyhocks,

strawberries, rhubarb and iris,

past the spot where a rattlesnake

soaked up water from

a sprinkler one August day,

past the rotted elm

where fire ants swarmed

in balls before they

tumbled to the ground.

We opened the rusted

screen door and

tiptoed to bed,

where I lay crying,

because it felt so wondrous,

because it felt so good,

until the moonstain

no longer spread

across the floor.