END OF THE STORY, continued

When I retired from the state prison system, where I had been treating incest and other sex offenders for 12 years, I felt sufficiently concerned–as a psychologist and incest survivor myself–to share the devastation  incest has on victims. (Referred to as survivors as they struggle to grow.)  Almost to the man, they believe it doesn’t harm the victim.  I decided to write a book revealing the effect incest had on me.  In the process I became aware of more effects that I had not connected to the incest.

So I wrote the book. The editor of the University of Ohio Press wanted to print it. The business manager, however, turned it down, saying people don’t want to read about incest.

So, believing it could perhaps prevent future incest offenders or the many who have never been apprehended, I pursued “on demand” publishing, with Amazon’s Create Space and ended up with 434 pages.  I won’t bore you with the results but I have my book on a PDF and am willing to share at no cost.  You see, I meant it when I said I was motivated by the hope to share the knowledge and experience, not money.  If you’d like a copy and your computer can handle a hefty PDF, let me know plus where to send it.  I’m not worried about being flooded with requests, since it didn’t do well on Amazon.

P.S. If you request one or both I won’t print your request.

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
This entry was posted in A mixed bag. Bookmark the permalink.

Please share your own experiences here...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.