My Writer's Journey

Though I first posted the following poem on my health blog, Peace Be with You, I now post it here as well. The poem seems appropriate for also describing my writing journey.

I have had many positive experiences on my writing journey. Those include, along with great personal growth, that I recently published a book of poetry. Numerous short stories have also appeared in literary reviews. My novels, however, remain unpublished.

Of course,the choice to publish is now entirely my own. New self publishing options make it possible to bypass the industry’s traditional gatekeepers who have not known what to do with my fiction. The gatekeepers are now solely the reading audience which will embrace, or not, what one has written. My current hope is to be able to reach that audience effectively and that it will welcome me.

On my writing journey, there will again be highs, as well as disappointments. But, whether I publish again or not, I will never stop writing, which I love to do. Through it all, it will remain a journey of healing and self discovery.

The Healing Journey of a Broken Vessel

Whence does my hope come?
Why does faith in renewal
remain undaunted?

A broken vessel
containing my life stories
lies shattered and strewn.

New life may emerge
from the shards of brokenness.
Will I be patient?

Happy New Year

a new year begins
fresh hopes and aspirations
to live life fully

It’s Been Quite a Year

My Pilgrim Soul adventure started August of last year with a post about the similarities between authors Chinua Achebe, Ron Rash, and, I hoped, one of my novels. To my delight, blogging introduced me to a richly rewarding online community. What's more, for the first time the publishing decision about my writing was, for better or worse, entirely mine. Wow, what a privilege.

So here’s a great big thank you to those who have been with me on my pilgrimage as it evolved from focusing solely on my fiction to embracing broader issues of culture, religion, writing craft, and heroism. Because most of you were not here at the beginning, I am sharing an updated version of one of my earliest posts:

“How the Rediscovery of My Father’s Words Led to My Writing Fiction.”

The first novel I ever wrote was birthed in a time of great upheaval in my life. I had walked away from my business career the year before. My marriage had ended. My father died soon after. In retrospect, it is not surprising that I might try something new like writing fiction. How it actually happened though still astounds me.

After my father's death, I began transcribing his poetry, essays, and sermons to distribute to family and friends. It was challenging work for several reasons. Many of the audio tapes were of abysmal quality. Despite that, his familiar voice still rose above the scratchiness, and I grieved that I would never again hear him speak directly to me. More than once, I almost abandoned the project, convinced I was only prolonging my grieving.

As if that weren’t already challenging enough, my father’s sermons were all in Spanish, no longer my primary language. I found myself rummaging through his huge unabridged dictionary, trying to find words no one used in ordinary language. At least I never heard them. It was often frustrating as I was never sure I had heard a word correctly, given the sometimes awful quality of the tapes.

Several months later, having listened to the final tape and transcribed the last sermon, I sent out the material to family and friends. That was when I realized that, instead of prolonging my grieving process, my transcription project had actually eased my transition into a world in which I could no longer pick up the phone to talk to my dad.

That was not the only surprise. I woke up one morning with the lines of an unfamiliar Spanish poem swirling in my head. I wrote down the poem and, for the next few months, found myself writing poetry in Spanish, something I’d never done before. And, no, I’ve not looked at those poems recently. I’d rather keep alive the memory of how magical a time writing those poems was rather than think about editing.

The period of writing poems in Spanish lasted about half a year. One morning, as surprising as when it first appeared, the impulse to write poetry vanished. Soon after, though, I found myself, again, waking up with material sloshing in my brain that seemed to want to be written down. That turned out to be the beginning of a novel. And for the first time in my adult life, I felt I was exactly where I should be, writing fiction.

In the years since, my writing craft has improved, and I have come to appreciate how the hard work of creating a novel or story involves taking that initial magical spark of inspiration and, through dogged hard work, transforming it into something in which story, characters, dialogue, conflict, and style cohere. I wonder, though, if any of my subsequent novels and short stories would have been written had I not undertaken transcribing my father’s work.

***

Thank you, papi, for your marvelous gift of prompting me to write fiction. Thank you, readers, for sharing my pilgrimage over the last year.

The Family Business

The evangelical ministry was the Mercado-Santiago family "business." My mother and father were both ordained ministers. Two of my mother’s sisters entered the ministry. Another married a minister. My uncle's wife embraced the ministry, one of several in-laws to do so. Some of my cousins are currently ministers. Nothing pleased my parents more than that their church produced more than thirty ordained ministers who went on to lead their own congregations.

Given that, expectations were high that I would also be a minister or at least marry one. To my parents’ disappointment, I neither became a minister nor married one. In fact, I left their religion altogether. In the interest of full disclosure, though, I reveal that I “attended” their denomination's seminary in my early teens. My overprotective mother, averse to leaving me alone with potentially sinful influences, took me along while she attended seminary. As a consequence, I sat in on every single class of Biblical history and hermeneutics, often silently arguing with the professor.

Some might say I am still arguing. Believer or nonbeliever? On a given day, I might fall into either camp. What I am not, repeat not, is a proselytizer. There is no surer way to get my hackles up than to come up against someone who believes I must be Saved. Aware of just how unfathomable the nature of reality might be, I respect anybody’s nonviolent attempt to explain the meaning of existence, be it in spiritual or non-spiritual terms. Just don’t try to convert me.

There was a second family business, the words business, and that one I did join. I already posted How the Rediscovery of My Father’s Words Led to My Writing Fiction. In the course of his long ministry, my father wrote well over a thousand sermons. As relaxation, he also wrote poetry, some of which is still recited in various churches. After he died, we found a worksheet, complete with editing marks, on which he had been composing a poem about the challenges in the life of a minister. That tattered piece of paper, which I have framed, constitutes the sum total of my material inheritance. Then again, that peek into my father’s interior struggles added to the valuable emotional and wisdom inheritance I also received from him. Here’s the first verse. On my other blog, I have posted the full text.

Cuando a tus puertas llegue el desaliento
When discouragement shows up at your door

y la tristeza minar quiera tu vida
and sadness wants to undermine your life

recuerda del Señor, su buen ejemplo
remember the Lord’s good example

cuando la embarcación estaba pereciendo
when the vessel was about to capsize

serenó a la mar embravecida.
He calmed the tumultuous seas.

Rev. Miguel A. Mercado

Oh, I almost forgot. My father’s mother at one time was supposedly a Spiritualist medium. So, having been surrounded by religious leaders and also being a preacher’s kid, are you surprised that I write about people coming to terms with religion and spirituality?

How The Rediscovery of My Father's Words Led To My Writing Fiction

If I haven’t yet summarized my novel Hidden Warriors, it’s because I’ve been afraid to read it again and find out it might be terrible. This was the first novel I ever wrote, birthed in a time of great upheaval in my life. I had walked away from my career the year before. My marriage had ended. My father died not long after. In retrospect, it's not surprising that I might try something new like writing fiction. How it actually happened though still amazes me.

After my father's death, I began transcribing his poetry, essays, and sermons to distribute them to family and friends. It was challenging work for several reasons. Many of the audio tapes were of abysmal quality. Despite that, his familiar voice still rose above the scratchiness, and I grieved that I would never again hear him speak directly to me. More than once, I almost abandoned the project, convinced I was only prolonging my grieving process.

As if that weren’t already challenging enough, my father’s sermons, essays, and poetry were all in Spanish, no longer my primary language. I found myself rummaging through my father’s huge unabridged dictionary, trying to find words no one used in ordinary language—at least I didn’t recall them—never sure whether I was even searching for the right word, given the awful quality of the tapes.

Several months later, having listened to the final tape and transcribed the last sermon, I sent out the material to family and friends. That was when I realized that, instead of prolonging my grieving process, my transcription project had actually eased my transition into a world where I could no longer pick up the phone to talk to my dad. That was not the only surprise. After my immersion into the Spanish language and my father’s poetry, I woke up one morning with the lines of an unfamiliar poem swirling in my head. I wrote down the poem and, for the next few months, found myself writing poetry in Spanish, something I’d never done before! And, no, I’ve not looked at those poems recently either for the same reason I haven’t dared to reread the last draft of my first novel. I’d rather keep alive the memory of how magical a time writing those poems and that novel was for me.

The period of writing poems in Spanish lasted about half a year. One morning, as surprising as when it first appeared, the impulse to write poetry vanished. Soon after, though, I found myself, again, waking up with material sloshing in my brain that seemed to want to be written down. So I did. That turned out to be the beginning of my novel Hidden Warriors, and, for the first time in my adult life, I felt I was exactly where I should be, writing novels. My writing craft has improved since then, and I have come to appreciate how the hard work of creating a novel involves taking that initial magical moment of inspiration and, through dogged hard work, transforming it into something in which story, characters, dialogue, conflict, and style cohere. I wonder, though, if any of my subsequent novels and short stories would have been written had I not undertaken transcribing my father’s work.

A brief note about Hidden Warriors. A businesswoman on the verge of being named CEO must track down her former husband, a globe-trotting photographer, to find out why she has received a mysterious emerald-like stone. Andrea and Luke Norman then have to confront their unresolved past, a quest that takes them to New Mexico, New York, Chicago, Brazil, and Peru.