Writing: The Best Way to Metabolize My Life

A Writing It Real subscriber essay in the series "When I Knew I Was a Writer"

Photo from the author Liz Hartz

I knew I was a writer, although not the wordsmith I longed to be, after graduating from college with a B.A. in English and dozens of magazine and newspaper feature articles published. I also realized what I liked to read hugely influenced what I wrote. At 9 years old, living in Spain with no TV to distract me, I’d cut my reading teeth on fantasy writer Ray Bradbury. My love for his stories planted the desire in me to grow imaginative stories like his one day. Although I took creative writing classes in high school and college, except for the romantic poetry I kept hidden (my favorite song lyrics were Someday my prince will come) my fiction felt rigid and uninspired. Seeking improvement and feedback, I turned to writing nonfiction feature articles, receiving valuable input from magazine editors.

I gleaned this journalistic idea from reading mystery writer Michael Connelly, who wrote for the crime beat in LA for many years before writing fiction. Might feature writing serve as my training for more nuanced writing in the future? I located publishers of free newspapers and magazines in Hawaii who allowed me to write articles for them. My editors helped me improve by critiquing my work.

This carried me until 1985, when Vic, my confidante and heartthrob, was murdered.

I forgot I was a writer for two months after my life was shattered by a violent coworker, who murdered Vic following a heated argument lasting from five to eight minutes (neighbors couldn’t make out the words). During those 60 days, I fought the biggest battle of my life, struggling between fear of the killer and love for Vic. I was too agitated to write anything down.

I remembered I was a writer after Vic’s spirit presence filled me, first with ecstasy that he still existed, then with pain that I hadn’t told the whole truth for him. Not until the homicide detective pressured me, saying, “You said Vic was your friend. What if he was your brother? Would you tell the truth if he was your brother?” did I conquer my fear enough to write my whole truth, filling 12 legal-sized, two-sided yellow pages with a description of the incidents at work I’d kept hidden from the cops when I was terrified of retaliation from the killer’s thugs if I testified against him.

I’d forgotten I was a writer as long as the fear holding me in its grip silenced the voice in my throat and on the page. After telling my whole truth, I felt peace, my conscience clear. Shortly afterward, I found the precognitive dream I’d scribbled down seven months before the murder. The dream gave me the answer I prayed for on the day of the murder— “What was the argument about?” We at the fire department thought the killer was coming to work to shoot the fire chief for promoting another fireman for a promotion, and Vic tried to stop him. The dream told me a different story—that the argument was about me. That funny, brave Vic died protecting me from the violent man who planned to harm me.

I remembered I was a writer when, stunned, amazed, and grateful, I promised Vic’s spirit I’d keep writing until I improved my wordsmithing skills enough to tell the world how generous and giving he was, how strong and true. I swore I’d learn how to tell his story in a compelling way even if it took me the rest of my life.

I knew I was a writer when I wanted to, needed to connect with and process my emotions by writing Vic’s story. His death shattered me like a China cup on a concrete floor. Shattered me like the two bullets that missed Vic’s body shattered the murderer’s garage floor, concrete fragments embedding themselves into Vic’s right arm in an oblate spheroid pattern (a term I learned when I watched the 3-day murder trial.) That pattern proved Vic’s arm had been moved from his chest to his side after THE KILLER shot him four times at close range and wrapped Vic’s fingers over a gun “in a perfect grip—very unusual,” the homicide detective said. Jaku claimed self-defense, saying Vic came at him with a gun. The evidence at the scene shredded the killer’s lies. He was convicted of first-degree, premeditated murder.

I forgot I was a writer for a few months after the hullabaloo was finally over. The station was too quiet. I missed Vic terribly. I sank into a deep depression.

I knew I was a writer when writing Vic’s story every morning before work started easing my depression. Writing about Vic intently and intensely, I sometimes felt his spirit “mosey on by”, as he used to put it when he popped into the alarm room where I was working to “talk story” with me, his favorite dispatcher.

This is my way, I thought, to stay close to Vic. I thanked him for yet another wonderful gift, the gift of improving my writing, for I wouldn’t have immersed myself in writing creative non-fiction had it not been for my longing to keep my promise to him.

I knew I was a writer when I became like a grad student who felt rootless after finally finishing her lengthy book-writing project. I mourned the loss of waking up excited because I’d be writing on my book, and knew I had to find other ways and means to start writing again.

I knew I was a writer when, after my memoir was published in 2014, I took amazing essay writing courses that nurtured the writer inside me and gave me valuable feedback. I continued to write essays and blog posts, and poetry for my author’s website. Many of the posts were about my talented, brilliant husband Barry, who’d started adjusting my back in 1990 and fixed it when no one else could. Eight years later, we’d fallen in love, and I was calling him my “double doctor,” what with his PhD in physics and his DC in chiropractic.

I knew I was a writer when, in 2013, newly retired from Federal Civil Service, I moved to Honolulu with Barry to help care for his mom with Alzheimer’s. My creative non-fiction writing was being published—an anti-gun violence essay published on Writers Resist, blogposts on my author websites, essays and short stories in anthologies. Life was good—I participated in writer conferences, joined such professional organizations as the National League of American Women and the mystery writing group Sisters in Crime, and connected with other writers.

I mostly forgot I was a writer when, nearly four years ago, life took me on an unexpected journey when vascular dementia attacked Barry’s memories. The difficult, busy role of caregiver was added to my role as a partner, challenging and exhausting me. Limited time and energy for myself robbed me of my precious daily writing routine. The lack of my writing connection and of exercising combined to misplace my peace. I was unable to sleep much because I stayed on high alert—what if Barry fell again and I didn’t wake up? I would steal writing moments when Barry slept. But when I tried to write on my computer, I lacked the time I needed to muse. My entire life felt rushed. I had so much to do to take care of Barry that I couldn’t focus on telling a story, didn’t want to write about his dreadful dementia, wouldn’t wrap my mind around losing my cherished mental connection with the brilliant man I’d shared my life with and loved for the last 23 years, the humanitarian husband who loved me too and made a home with me. The man who told me, when I was helping him care for his mom, “People in our lives get sick to teach us how to give.”

I remembered I was a writer two weeks ago, in that fuzzy state between waking and dreaming, when my inner voice nudged me to pivot with my writing process. “Pivot like you’ve learned to pivot with Barry,” the voice said, “when you’ve distracted him from watching disturbing TV programs by changing the channel so he could listen to music he loved, or nudged him away from negative behavior by finding ways to praise rather than correct.”

I pivoted and started writing this essay. I’d been struggling for weeks, pounding out chronological paragraphs about the history of writing my memoir, even though I wanted to write about how I knew I was a writer. The idea came to me when I awoke at 4 a.m., thoughts circling through my brain about how to write this essay, telling me I should, right at this very moment, speak into the recorder on my cell phone so I’d be able to access these thoughts when I woke up later. Speaking softly so as not to wake Barry, I recorded my thoughts, later transcribing them, letting my writing take me where my thoughts led me.

I knew I was a writer when writing this way took my writing in new, interesting directions. I’m getting more writing done now because I don’t start writing without an entry way into my theme, when I’m letting my subconscious show me the way. Another gift of writing this way is remembering to allow brainstorming and reflection.

I knew I was a writer when I made the marvelous discovery that writing long and intently revealed truths I hadn’t known before I put pen to paper. Truths such as the murderer craved attention like a man dying of thirst in the desert craves water. He terrified me the many times he trapped me in the alarm room after midnight, hiding in the shadows, his flat black eyes staring at me, no light in them at all. He would brag about his many crimes, trying to impress me with what a bad dude he was. Having been warned about his propensity to “get even” with people who “crossed him,” I pretended to be impressed by him. To be his friend.

Pretending didn’t save me from the killer. Vic did.

I’m carrying a torch for Vic, forever grateful to my Angel Hero.

Vic once let me know that writing a book about him gave him a great deal of status with the other spooks.

I know I’m a writer because writing my truth connects me to Vic’s spirit. Even now, 40 years later, I sometimes feel him nearby. Chills tingle along my spine, the atmosphere of the room throbs with love, my heart grows warm, and all is well. I write.

***

Lizbeth Hartz sold some 150 magazine articles to local and regional magazines on Oahu in the 70’s and 80’s. When her heartthrob was murdered in 1985, she switched to writing her memoir, Angel Hero, Murder in Hawaii, A True Story. Her song, also titled Angel Hero, (lyrics by Liz, music by Johnny Valentine, demoed in Nashville) is available on iTunes and Amazon and is the music for her book trailer at https://www.kwillbooks.com/lizbeth-hartz/ Since 2014, Liz’s blog has resided at her website at https://authorlizbethhartz.com, Two of her essays have been published in anthologies compiled by her online writing teacher, Sheila Bender, a renowned American poet and essayist.