Bio

I never wanted to be a writer, not like this anyway. But I was twenty-one years old and had just survived a 7.6 richter earthquake in El Salvador. I hadn’t slept in three days as the aftershocks continued. Hadn’t brushed my hair or my teeth. Phone connectivity was shaky at best, but I had the editor of a large regional newspaper on the line. And I was yelling at him.

“That’s not what I said! You turned my words around. Now your readers won’t understand the real impact of what’s happened here.”

I was strung out. I admit it. I had reached my limit. Earlier that day I had volunteered with the Red Cross who was still digging people out of their homes from a landslide caused by the earthquake.

But many of those we found were already dead.

Hundreds were pulled from the very homes where that had felt most safe. Their bodies were carried past me, as I passed buckets of dirt. It was a small job, but we all wanted to do something.
The journalist who had interviewed me played down the impact of the earthquake in the published story – that was my personal tipping point.

The editor heard me out, politely letting me rant. A silence came over the line, and was pretty sure I had sufficiently alienated him and he was fed up – or the line had cut out.

Finally he spoke.

“Could you write it better yourself?” His voice was calm. Unconcerned.

“Damn right, I could.”

“Excellent. I’ll pay you $200 per article. I’d like the first one by tomorrow at 4pm local time.”

It was the beginning of a journey for me, where writing became a way to understand the world.

Or, for those many times I don’t understand it, writing is a way to avoid being completely paralyzed by the madness around us.

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