Speak! Hearing the Voice From the Edge

Who knew that naming a book could be such a painful process? I always had the first part, Prozac Monologues. The book began when I wrote what I thought was a stand-up comedy routine. It grew from there.

But when my publisher wanted a subtitle, a struggle ensued between what kind of book she thought it was about and what I did. Without replaying that struggle, somehow the word Voice bubbled to the surface. And I knew it was right.

There have been times when I struggled to find my voice. Unheard calls for help in childhood, the near universal women's experience of being talked over. After a traumatic stint in therapy, I lost my voice. Literally. Ten years later, I still get laryngitis whenever I see a new provider.

So I listen carefully for those in Scripture whose voices are dismissed. The Prophet Amos wasn't supposed to speak - he was a foreigner. Hannah wasn't supposed to pray in the temple - the old lady was thought to be drunk. Those who were ill, the parents of children, the Syro-Phoenician woman (my favorite) whom the disciples shooed away - they were bothering Jesus.

Ironically, it was the priest in the temple, Zechariah, who lost his voice, until after his wife spoke, usurping the father's prerogative to name their son, John.

The voices from the edge carry the Word, including the Maid Mary herself.

Also ironically, the original monologues, spoken with such authority, are filled with words from a confused mind. In the book, they alternate with chapters identified as The Voice From the Edge. It's the latter chapters that carry the healing truth.

My wife was in Ireland during this struggle with my publisher. She brought home a present, a bottle of Irish whiskey called Writer's Tears. It seemed apt.

Today my tears are for joy.

I want to hear you, too, speak.