Friday, May 08, 2020

Stolen Truth

Henya Drescher

My novel, Stolen Truth, will be published on March 18, 2021, by Black Rose Writing.

The writing process was a time-travel adventure. The pace of my journey was slow and fraught, with many difficulties. At times, it seemed as if I had a more fulfilling relationship with my characters than with life itself. And beyond that, trying to pull off the perfect, satisfying twists that should look seamless. But I learned the hard way. In one draft, I introduced several scenes just for the sake of bringing in incidents that meandered nowhere. My editor politely asked why they existed. What would happen if we just deleted them? The answer was ‘nothing.’ It had zero effect on the plot other than lazy, gimmicky devices.

Stolen Truth captures the fraught frustrations of Bree, who may or may not have been the mother of a kidnapped newborn, as she plunges into her quest, facing many internal and external uncertainties. Bree bears the history of being a troubled woman, yet she is passionately determined. The complexities of her character drive the story through accumulating dead ends and detours.

To those of you who shared in my journey, please accept my sincere thanks for believing in me.

Blind Pursuit

Henya blind pursuit , depression

What is Moral Injury

Moral injury is the damage done to one’s conscience or moral compass when that person perpetrates, witnesses, or fails to prevent acts that transgress one’s own moral beliefs, values, or ethical codes of conduct. ~~ Syracuse University

Since war is a constant human condition, a devastating form of MORAL INJURY confronts most of the warriors once they return to civilian life. In the heat of battle, soldiers are often ordered to do things that are unspeakable in civil society: kill enemy soldiers; toss grenades into houses; burn down villages. These atrocities turn into memories that many veterans cannot discard.

In BLIND PURSUIT, my psychological thriller in progress, Homa the main character is an Afghanistan veteran who shows all the symptoms of suffering from a moral injury.

An ex-intelligence officer, Homa’s job was to translate and analyze communications between the Taliban. Though Homa was not in the front line, the knowledge that the consequences of her decision-making had caused loss of life is just as impactful as if she were experiencing it first-hand. This knowledge causes her to suffer a betrayal of her core belief of what’s right and just, even if such an act had to be used in high stake situations.

Until recently, experiences of war which is exhibited in rage, and isolation were diagnosed by the mental health community as Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD.)

But the familiar diagnosis of PTSD as an explanation of deployment-related suffering does not entirely capture the silent type of anguish. PTSD is attached to a description that points to a kind of fear syndrome. It’s easy to understand a car accident victim, or a brutal attack, or a witness of a horrendous murder. But what about, the kind that shows depression? The kind the sucks the life out of you, and you don’t know why?

MORAL INJURY is associated with a trauma that is characterized by symptoms of guilt, shame, depression, anxiety, anger, self-harm, and social problems.

BLIND PURSUIT is an intimate look at Homa’s journey through her struggle with service-related PTSD and moral injury. Her symptoms involve constant thoughts and memories of death-related events, vivid nightmares that make it hard for her to sleep, anxiety and loss of interest in relationships, or any activity outside her job. She has developed obsessive behaviors. She often checks the windows and the front door of her apartment. She is hyper-vigilant of her surroundings. She gets claustrophobic in tight places.

In Homa’s voice: “I have to accept my shame and feelings of wrong-doing, there’s no point trying to push them away. I’m going to feel terrible; it’s going to come in waves — stronger then weaker then stronger again — that twist in the pit of my stomach, the anguish of shame, the heat coming to my face, my eyes squeezed tight as though I could make it all disappear.”

Tuesday, April 02, 2019

Henya contemplating , Inner Dialogue

Re-Writing Internal Dialogue

Let’s talk about Internal Dialogue in Life

My internal voice tirelessly observes and comments on the world and how I see myself navigating in it. These voices are unforgiving and relenting with their self-critique. They buzz in my head with the force of a whip or a punisher, delivering dark messages of screw-ups. I hear them most just before I lay my head down for the night.

Most of the time I’m cognizant of their presence — a sneaky and uninvited life-long intrusion to my well- being and peace of mind. As much as I am aware and as much as I know what I must do to evict the perpetrators — at least temporarily — comments I soaked up during my developing years. They have transformed into a complicated web complete with colors and jingles to get my attention. What’s worse, they paint a picture that resembles nothing of who I am.

These messages doggedly accompany me to social situations, rendering me mute and helpless. They are a bunch of judgmental hooligans who cast a dark shadow over me and who jump at the opportunity to make fun of my introverted self.

Eventually, I learned ways to soothe myself, but not always successfully. Overriding encrypted coding requires awareness, humongous concentration and dedication. In a loud and resolute tone, I command these voices. “Stop it!!!” “Stop it!!!” “Stop it!!!” Then I go on to dispute their erroneous observation of me, that they are ill-informed and thus have to keep their mouth shut.

And when I don’t talk to them, I chant this mantra:

You are great, you are good, you are wonderful.

I repeat these words several times until I get a peaceful feeling. Until my head clears. Until my body calms, and so is my mind. Until I feel euphoric and happy. I mean it! That helps. Me.

Let’s Talk About Internal Dialogue in Novels

Like real everyday humans, some characters are reluctant to tell me their innermost thoughts.

As a novelist, I understand that internal dialogue is an essential tool for obtaining the reader’s confidence in the story I’m relaying. To get to the heart of the story, I poke around the recesses of their mind and conscience to extract information. By understanding the characters motives, their hopes, dreams, needs, it possible to empathize with them.

When I read a book, internal dialogue satisfies the craving I get when looking for a good story. I want to feel involved and invested, and only when a character divulges inner thoughts, do feels myself immersed in the story.

To Summarize Inner Dialogue in Fiction and Life

In conclusion, in writing, and in life I believe that internal dialogue plays a big part in who we are and how we deal with the world at large. Internal discourse dictates decision making, it helps to influence opinions about anything. It helps to choose whether to believe something or not. It is non-stop and continually shaping and reshaping the world and dictating thinking.

The trick is to LISTEN. Listen to the voices. Listen to what the inner spool unwinds. Listening is designed to unlock secrets and bring them out to light. Exposing them unburdens the load of crap that is designed to be taken as gospel.

The Difficult Climb to Understanding

Henya Balance , Books

What is the Right Balance?

Okay, I admit it…I’m a loaner. Being a writer makes being alone easier. I also want to mention that I like my own company. There! I said it.

So why do I feel guilty about that?

I think I know why: it stems from hearing most of my acquaintances boast how their lives are filled with daily excursions—a must, they say—and having several close relationships. And there lies the dichogamy . . . I can go days without communicating with anyone except for my husband. Yet, I chastise myself for not needing to be around people, even though I find most chit-chat frivolous, uninteresting, and most social situations exhausting.

When in gatherings I’ve taught myself to be patient with myself and bow out physically and emotionally. I will escape to the bathroom for a few minutes, then come back rejuvenated. Somewhat. When that wears off, I find a quiet corner and result of observing people. Body language is fascinating. I can learn a lot from watching and using this material in my writing.

And in the process, I’ve learned that I’m not the only one who has social limitations. There has to be a reason people resort to drinking alcohol to help them “take the edge off.” We all have our limitations. And that’s why, I wonder about the people in my life who claim that they cannot be by themselves, that they “need to be around people” all the time. To me, that seems inconceivable. These kinds of declaration I view with suspicion. Let me be more explicit: from my vantage point, how is it possible? They bound to run out of things to talk about. And if they don’t, what they have to say merits substance?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a hermit. I do enjoy some people’s company. I appreciate the company of people who really listen to what I have to say. I have little patience for those who are busy formulating an answer, retort, or come up with their own agenda while I’m in the middle of talking. I don’t enjoy the company of those who continuously interrupt me while I talk.

And if that happens, I calm down. I decide not to share anything of myself, because, what’s the point? When I have a conversation with someone, I don’t want it to become a competition of who can talk more, who sounds smarter. It should be a give and take experience. And this is why my circle of friends (which are few and fewer) is numbered on the one hand.

I don’t see having few friends as a problem. What I do see as a problem, is my self-critique. The self who tells me I should stretch myself further from the boundaries I seem to embrace and like.

Wednesday, June 08, 2016

Henya Biography , holocaust

Photo with the Missing Head

As featured in ESRA Magazine, this short autobiographical story is only a small portion of a larger piece.

Ten years in the making and this account is still not finished. A difficult time in my life, equally difficult to write. And more so, I contemplated long and hard whether to share it with the world.

Well . . . here it is.

I hope you enjoy reading.

http://www.esra-magazine.com/blog/post/photographs-drescher

Photo With The Missing Head

by Henya Drescher Category: People Issue No. 185

The photo with the man’s head missing

For as long into the past as I remember, there hung on the wall above my grandparents’ bed a glass-framed black and white photograph which I could almost reach when I stood on top of the bed itself. In a large chest of drawers, more photo albums were kept in the bottom drawer, where the past could be paraded in disjointed events before my eyes.

The photo above the bed featured the head of a younger version of my mother next to the head of an unfamiliar man, but who closely resembled my uncle. Boobe’s eyes welled up whenever she looked at the picture and then at me. Everybody cried around me: an uncle who came from America to visit every two years, my uncle and aunt who lived in Binyamina, Boobe’s sister who lived in Haifa, and my cousins. What was this sadness about? I waited for some sign to explain the offenses they believed I had committed against them.I was a walking question mark.

Was it a weekend or a summer holiday? Who could remember now? But I do recall my older cousin’s question, uttered so suddenly that I was struck by the oddity of it. We had been sitting in the kitchen, illuminated by a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling by an electric wire. The air in the room was warm and fragrant with my aunt’s rhubarb pie. Outside heavy drops of rain fell against the kitchen window and struck the ground. My cousin’s deft fingers were braiding my long curly hair.

“Do you want to go to the cemetery?” she asked.

Later—a week or two, or a month—my cousin and I walked to the cemetery. After a short walk through thorny weeds we stood in front of a grave upon which stood a headstone skewed by time and weather. I knelt down to place on the grave the wild flowers we had gathered along the way. Then I saw it: the inscription on the stone read my grandparents’ last name.

I looked up at my cousin with questioning eyes.

“Ask Boobe,” she said. “She’ll tell you.”

One late July evening, my grandparents and I were sitting on the porch. The air was warm. Insects buzzed in the darkening day. My grandfather held a Yiddish-language newspaper. The pages flapped gently in the warm breeze.

“Zaide,” I said, “Why is the newspaper listing names of people? Is someone looking for them?”He peered at me; rimless glasses perched on the tip of his nose. His blue eyes were sharp and clear, eyes that looked. An army of furrows had settled deep in uneven lines across his forehead.“Many people lost their family members during the war,” Zaide replied in Yiddish. “Survivors have no other means by which they can discover if their families are alive.”

My grandmother nodded.“Truth is often painful, but I hope that it alone will save us,” my grandfather continued. “It is important for you to know the truth.”At that moment I had thought that by asking about the mysterious grave, I might be able to understand something about my history. I never dared ask.

Many years later I was able to acknowledge the persistent guilt I felt toward my family—the family I would need to leave in order to discover myself. And what compounded the guilt was the suspicion that in leaving them behind I would be leaving my identity as well, in a perpetual state of imposed exile.

In those earlier days at my grandparents’ house, I wandered among the ruins of my family’s past as my eyes relentlessly traveled to the wall with the picture of my mother and a dark-haired stranger. I knew my parents were lying when they said the missing head in the picture albums was a dear friend who had died. Then why cut out his existence? If he was dead already, why annihilate his memory further?

Indeed, the albums contained vanished family members, but the missing head, which was mostly next to my mother’s smiling face—their bodies tilted into each other toward the center of their gravity, remained their deepest secret.

Information came in bits and pieces; I greeted each with increasing disbelief; each a separate blow. Their words furthered feelings of pity for unknown ancestors whose Litvak tribulations had been foreign to me. Yet my connection to them was deeply entrenched. There were hushed and unfinished stories about atrocities in concentration camps and missing family members. Many vanished; few survived. My grandparents lost a daughter and her six grandchildren. My mother lost her parents; my father’s mother and younger brother were murdered, a slew of cousins and friends.

The missing head with the rest of the body intact remained a mystery until I turned thirteen.There will always be that certain incident that will remain more prominently than anything else during my childhood. If it had only happened a few years later, or even a few years earlier.

The two of us, Boobe and I, were sitting on a stoep. Insects lurched wildly against us. A gray cat gazed at me warily from the edge of the garden. ‘You are old enough to know the truth,’ Boobe said, enunciating each separate syllable slowly with voice unsteady, remote.

I leaned forward.

Her words had a persistent stubbornness that kept entrenching me deeper and deeper. I was bathed in sweat and dazed by the heat; my clothes hung limply against my skin. No longer was I secure in my commonplace aspect, secure in my lackluster nonentity.These words offered the knowledge I craved for myself, but now unsure I wanted to know. Except that there could be no going back. - nothing to go back to. I had become what the world outside made me; I had to live in this world, as it existed.

I was thirteen years old, for heaven’s sake! What was I to do with this information? “He’s been killed,” she said. “And he was only twenty-four years old. He had just arrived in Palestine with a young bride and seven-month-old daughter. He’d survived the hardship of war”and had somehow succeeded in securing a passage to the Promised Land.He had been drafted to dig fox holes shortly after his arrival, and had been killed doing so. He’d lived in Palestine for two weeks,” she said. “And your mother was left alone with you.”

I shouted out, “No! No! That is not true!”

I was wiped clean as a slate, emptied of history. My grandmother had taken it upon herself, against my parents’ wishes, to reveal the family’s secret. My father was not my real father.

Up until that moment, I could not understand why Boobe was my grandma. She was not my mother’s mother; neither was she my father’s. My father had his own stepmother. His mother had disappeared in some concentration camp.

For years to come, I found myself imagining my real father, constantly comparing everybody’s features with the features of the man in the one saved photo. What was he like? He, of course, was kind; his eyes filled with the light of kindness. My birth father became a being of huge dimensions, a creature moving among the stars. He, of course, was generous: he loved to share, to guide; he would have taken great pleasure in initiating his daughter into entire domains of which she knew almost nothing. I had made myself according to the limitations I had understood.

So it was that once, long ago, the death of my father, Boobe’s son, my mother’s husband and her first cousin, had imposed the verdict of silence. The father whom I had never known was my mother’s husband and first cousin. That made Boobe and Zaide my mother’s aunt and uncle, and my uncle and aunt once removed, and my grandparents.

And there is irony here as well. My parents’ attempt to obliterate my father’s existence had not succeeded since the father I never knew resides in my own son’s face—my son who is now nineteen years older than my real father was.

It would be many years before Henya saw the complete picture, which revealed the missing head of her birth father

Passion for Hiking

Henya

As my husband and I are planning a full schedule of hiking in the pristine wilderness of Yellowstone, Teton and Rocky National Parks in September, I am struck by the idea of traveling to a natural environment and nurturing my appreciation of the non-human world.

Over the ages painters, writers, and photographers, whose work became widely appreciated, vividly illustrated beauty of wilderness. These works invited visitors to experience these settings personally and intimately.

Hiking is a passion of mine. My husband and I have hiked in several national parks. Though I enjoy and appreciate nature, I abhor seeing buses and hordes of people where unsullied wilderness should reign. Which brings me to the next point, there is an essential tension created between nature and human. The idea of fusing them together means a crowdedness of sorts. Therein lies the battle of territory and survival. But I am not the only one who appreciates and enjoys nature.

When we take on writing, we are daring the challenge

Henya agents , An Entry from My Book

The reason is obvious: to prove that we can, that we can ride this kind of roller coaster. To exert a remarkable control over the images which our eyes look at day after day and we find a way to write what we see. We write it in all five senses and in colors. We rummage in our heads for words to describe all of it. The possibilities are endless.

Imagery helps readers understand the fictive world, and, to create mood. Here is an example of that from the opening of my novel, Blow Forward.

“Lizzie’s gut clenched as she headed for the entrance, coffee mug in hand. She checked off a mental checklist of responses, the ones she always used after dispatchers gave her a hard time when first meeting her. She shoved her hand in her pocket. The feel of the mace canister—its cool, dispassionate solidity—comforted her. Some of the tension of having to face the outside world seemed to dissolve.”

This particular imagery creates a mood of foreboding. Lizzie’s “gut clenched”. We immediately know that something is wrong. The story further goes to tell that she checks for the mace canister in her pocket. Why does she feel that she needs to protect herself? It is a good example of imagery that the reader is able to immediately pictures the kind of mood and setting in which the scene may take place.

Here is another example from Shakespeare’s famous play MacBeth. He used a type of opening to elicit a response of looming danger from the reader when the three witches in the beginning speak of the, “thunder, lightning [and] rain” and the “fog and filthy air.”

Ah, but the act of writing and then presenting the story to the world is a very peculiar sort of challenge, indeed. This kind of world building becomes the reader’s property with which to form all sorts of interpretations and analysis. In short, your work may be subject to scrutiny -- public lynching or praise. But you’re willing to take the chance.

Right?

Premeditating Writer

Friday, May 08, 2020

Saturday, April 20, 2019

Blind Pursuit

What is Moral Injury

Tuesday, April 02, 2019

Let’s talk about Internal Dialogue in Life

Saturday, December 29, 2018

The Difficult Climb to Understanding

Wednesday, June 08, 2016

Photo With The Missing Head

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

Passion for Hiking

Saturday, April 25, 2015

When we take on writing, we are daring the challenge

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