Writing As Resistance: Censored, Not Silenced

Do you ever re-realize something you already knew? Like you already knew it in your head, but it drops into your heart like a missing puzzle piece, falls into the peaceful stream of your day like a rock in a pond, sending outward ripples extending over the water? This week that happened to me, because lately I've found myself in a battle I'm not sure how to win.

I pride myself on being a storyteller, but I also pride myself on my honesty. I try hard to balance truth and kindness in my life, but recently I've struggled with an increasingly uncomfortable sense of forced silence. There's a story I want desperately to share, based on a truth I think the world could benefit greatly from—but lately, every time I find the courage to speak I find the power of words stolen from me, my lips stapled together and covered in tape. Not because it's false or harmful, but because it's about the inherent instinct for survival, and the desperation that drives us in our darkest moments to seek light at all costs.

The story I'm aching to share sits in my soul like old family legends passed down from generation to generation, whispered in secret or passed hand to hand in the night. It's the kind of story that will never disappear until it leaves an irreversible mark, like the echoes of lines drawn on paper regardless of how hard the world tries to erase them.

But I? Rubbed raw in spirit by the world's erasure, I will muster truth and resilience to tell this story—even if it's only whispered from one soul to another—and I will pray that it finds the right hearts, that it sinks into those hearts like ocean water soaking into sand. And that the knowledge of it takes hold like a contagion of change that births new safety in empowered autonomy.

The wordsmith stood on a rickety wooden platform, all her dreams and hopes for the future held in her hands, stained and crumpled pages of parchment eager to escape her grasp and take flight on the passing wind. No longer a girl, not yet the village crone, she tipped her face to the sky, sending a whispered prayer to the heavens. She braced her feet against an almost palpable wave of fear, her throat hot with the acid burn of anxious bile rising with every breath. "No stopping now," she whispered, shaking fingers still clenched on the sweat-dampened edges of her story.

The story was written in blood, each page torn from the depths of her soul, the papers assembled carefully in the quiet, spider-webbed recesses of a troubled past no one dared—or cared—to explore. But she had walked a long and lonely road from her hidden cavern of isolated solitude, and scared or not, she was ready.

One lone woman filed into the space, lowered herself to a bench, and was soon joined by a man clearly from a distant land. Soon the wooden benches filled, and a sea of watching eyes focused on the shaking wordsmith. She watched their brows furrow and lower in confusion as she opened her mouth to begin, only to find her voice suddenly muted. She glanced down at the pages, stunned as bloodred ink blurred and then faded into the parchment. A quiet murmur rippled through the crowd, and the wordsmith scanned the room, horrified to find her greatest fear standing in the shadows beyond. The Censor narrowed eyes as large as pools of blackest tar, a menacing smile teasing at the edges of pale, thin lips.

The Censor had plagued the wordsmith all her life, deafening those who might hear her, twisting the meaning of her words even as she said them until her resolve shattered and she hid herself away, convinced that writing the words would protect them, preserve them, and give them power to enact change. Hunched over the Altar of Light, she had penned prayers of pain until rain poured from her eyes and there was only the blood of her heart with which to fill the empty pages of her desperation to be seen and heard—and it was only then that heartbreak became hope.

But there he was, waiting in the shadows, unnoticed by the crowd as they pinned her to the platform with scorn-filled eyes. "You can't tell the story!" one woman shouted. "Now is not the time!"

Encouraged, another woman nodded agreement. "It's too dark anyway; there's no hope to be found in a grimoire of grisly stories!"

Closing her eyes against the crowd, she stood like a punished child, heart aching, mouth dry. They were right. It was dark. But the whisper in her soul was a gently encouraging push. "Tell the story," it said. "Someone hungers for its hope." And as she opened her eyes the ink appeared again, as defined as a woodland path and sparkling somehow, like sunshine on the vastness of the ocean. She turned the page as yet unread, and sought the map she'd drawn, topography clarified by milestones and landmarks. The Censor may not let her tell the whole story, but she could show the map. She could lead them to the Altar of Light, where they might find, in the silence of the cavern, their own stories written in her words.

*****

The little fable written above is more than just an afternoon of me playing with genre and style. It's an example of why stories matter. Recently, I've been silenced on social media through automated algorithms that flag any promotion of FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM because the cover image shows a woman with visible bruises.

In a world often bent on silencing survivors of our inhumane society, fighting for justice and overcoming censorship is now a call to the battlefield of social opinion, a cry for our culture to stop turning a blind eye to victims. For me, the power of storytelling means speaking up for truth, standing up for what's right. It means when silence isn't an option and finding your voice isn't enough, there is still power in writing as resistance, sharing stories that matter.

I'm taking steps to work around this censorship, but the fact is, we still live in a world ready to revictimize survivors by silencing the sharing of their stories. FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM is personal for me, drawn from the stories of women in my own family—including me. I may be censored, but I am not silenced, especially when there are others willing to speak alongside me. If you'd like to help share this story and take up arms against censorship, share this blog post, share auto-flagged Facebook post #1 or auto-flagged Facebook post #2, or of course, pre-order the book. Whatever you choose to do, remember to always...