Concrete walls with long shards of glass embedded along the top, brutal points glinting in the hazy yellow light of the Sahel, surrounded the American embassy compound. Similar defenses protected private homes in the few neighborhoods that boasted living trees and roads with some tarmac still intact. Those with any means walled themselves behind concrete and cut glass, the only entrance a metal gate guarded by men with semi-automatic rifles and chained dogs kept on the cruel side of hunger.


Once, two Marines in a LandCruiser drove us to the home of an American defense attaché to spend the night. It was meant to be a treat. Air conditioning. Eating with utensils instead of scooping with our right hands. A bath. A bed not tented by mosquito netting sprinkled with termites. No snakes, frogs, cockroaches. No feral dogs seeking shelter, watching us from across our one-room mud hut with eyes glinting in the moonlight. A toilet.


As a Chadian man cleared the dinner table with white-gloved hands, the attaché’s wife said–she actually said–“It’s so hard to find good help here.”


I have tried to write about Chad for years, since an aborted attempt as Peace Corps volunteers in 1993 left us emotionally and physically compromised, and full of shame at not having endured the full length of our assignment. Leaving was an ethical decision: Chadian teachers were caught in a cycle of not being paid, striking until a bit of money and empty promises of reform were tossed at them like crumbs. Peace Corps volunteers stepped in to fill the gap in local schools and suddenly, who needs the Chadians any longer? Where’s the impetus to effect real change when outsiders will save the day? We were sick, morally, at the arrogance and illogicality of our presence.


We left. Alone. Months later the program collapsed behind us.


After Chad, we lived with friends in western Colorado, a place of intense and majestic beauty. We shared their tipi on a patch of high mesa. No concrete walls, no shards of glass embedded to keep out those intent on harm, or perhaps just justice. Only thick canvas walls. We came to rest and heal. To rebuild. Yet we were wounded all the same by invisible, razor-sharp shards of expectations and assumptions. A proposition made and rejected. A rejection that resulted in retaliation and betrayal. I have tried to write this story of Colorado for years, as well.


Because these stories, this particular time, are as locked together in my mind as Chad is by desert and Colorado by mountains and plain, I feel them as inextricably linked. A husband and wife lost, bereft, betrayed by expectations, by those they assumed would give them shelter: the U.S. Government; two close friends. Even now, twenty-three years later, I know I have not forgiven.


At last, the story is written, Chad and Colorado woven together, a needle pulling thread.


It’s rare to receive feedback from literary journals. They reject your work with a form e-mail that offers no insights, just “Hey, this isn’t for us. Good luck!” But this particular story garnered editorial feedback from two literary journals in which I’d be thrilled to be included. I am proud of these Nos, for they came accompanied with high praise. But the story was ultimately rejected by both for the same reason: the events just seemed unbelievable. What the young married couple had experienced strained credulity to the point of exasperation. Of course, everything that happens was ripped from the headlines of my life, as true as my memory and my journals of twenty-four/three years ago recall.


So I brought my story to a multi-day writing workshop recently, requesting insights on how to pull myself, the author, out of my own narrative and write in service to the story. How could I craft a better story, regardless of what really happened? If I intended to write a piece of non-fiction to honor my personal truth, I could go the essay route. But what I really want is tell a good story.


Critique is also meant to be in service to the story. How can we, as writer-readers, offer feedback that will help the writer take the best parts of her narrative and improve upon those?


At the start of the workshop, our instructor outlined the conditions whereby feedback was to be given: Our critique should determine how the work has affected us emotionally and intellectually, without criticism, without judgment, without using phrases such as I don’t like or this doesn’t work, which blame instead of exploring a story’s nature and its possibilities. We were promised safety.


Yet, the very first writer to offer up her story crumbled as parameter after parameter was crossed, the understanding between writers crumpled and tossed out the window. She finished the day and never returned, impaled on shards of poorly executed critique. Expectations shattered by reality; trust, betrayed. She and I shared a 3:00 p.m. bottle of wine later in the week, lamenting the irony that only the instructor could be heard using the verboten phrase, this doesn’t work . . .


“It’s so hard to find good help here.”


And what of my own work? A dozen copies of this story, with a dozen sets of interpretations and suggestions, sit in a folder. I am left with the shards of my narrative, my truth, shining and cruelly sharp at my feet, ready to be melted down and reshaped into something new.

6 thoughts on “Shards

  1. To a small extent, I am a Peace Corps orphan. Upon the divorce of my parents, when I was just six, my father left for the Peace Corps, Lesotho, south Africa, and stayed an ex-pat for the next 40 years.
    About five years ago, looking for deep, meaty, reading material, I asked him for 3 books that have had a huge impact on his life thus far. One of those books was ‘Dark Star Safari’, by Paul Theroux. He explained to me that this was, in one cutting, expansive novel, a story that was also HIS experience in Africa, and with the Peace Corps Organization, as well as the World Bank, the United Nations, and all the other NGOs with which he has worked. Bleak. Powerful. Moving.
    My point, my friend, is that the story must be told. Yes, it may unfold itself slowly, a dragonfly pumping blood slowly into glass wings, but it will emerge. And when it is the right time, less raw, less memory, it will be born. It will find you.

    I am looking forward to ‘Crows’, Julie Christine; I can’t wait. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  2. It’s true that reality does not necessarily equal plausibility. Hard to tell whether the implausibility is a result of the events you are relating or how you are telling it. And it is hard, too, to be vigilant, as writers are, and still have enough distance from actual events to tell the story well. Try to find a better workshop and get more eyes on this work. Maybe an online workshop with Sackett Street Writers or Grub Street?


  3. I certainly hope this unfortunate workshop incident will not preclude the advancement of this important, compelling work. Your words are so deft and full of grace; to think that some dolt who can’t follow his own admonishments might deprive us of your story is to induce apoplexy. Okay, that’s a bit hyperbolic but you get the gist. Your voice is rarefied and needed: here and elsewhere.

    I’ve pulled many a shard from wounds in my decades as a nurse and, in the process, had patients surrender their incredible stories of the unfolding tragedy/beauty of our fragile humanity. Please push on to share yours; it’s a gift not to be lost or dismissed.


  4. There is a story here of success masquerading as failure. Do not give up.
    I find some agents to be hugely bereft of imagination, and others using a writer’s mss as a platform for their own writing – make it like this.
    Oddly, you got two really self-centered and ineffective agents. You did not get good or useful feedback.

    Your story sounds fascinating, gripping. You have a choice of writing creative non-fiction, or straight out fiction, but this is a story to be published. I suggest that you acknowledge the unlikely link within the mss, and go forward. Story comes from what cannot be believed but is written with conviction. Don’t let this little glitch hold you back. Oh they of little imagination – and big worry about their bottom line. There are other agents.


    • Hello dear! Thank you for the lovely and encouraging reply.

      I should clarify: I have an amazing agent, Shannon Hassan of Marsal Lyon Literary. She’s sold two of my novels and gearing up to put a third on the market once I’ve plowed through revisions.

      The story I write about here is a short story meant for the lit journal market. Interestingly, one of the comments in the feedback I received was that I had too much material for a short story- it needs to be a novel. I’ve written a novel from a short story before, so this may be something worth exploring.

      But no matter what, there is no failure here. Only revision.

      xoxo Julie


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