Just laying there, all I wanted was for the pain to stop. I was convinced dying was my only way out. My hope is that, by offering a voice and a face to the cause of ending abuse, my own suffering was not in vain.
In 1978, at the age of 7, I was kidnapped and tortured for a year. I began writing a long letter to my soon-to-be ex-wife, and became besieged by submerged memories. I felt so much that I felt nothing. So, I put pen to paper and came alive.
Every few months, a big rock star biography or memoir comes out. The pre-release buzz is always major, promising, finally, the truth about that musical icon we all thought we knew. Rarely does that truth happen, though.
My writing partner Ed Simmons and I were living in L.A. with our families in the summer of 1950, selling living room furniture door to door to support ourselves while trying to break into show business.
When Louise Nayer was four in 1954, she and her parents and her six-year-old sister Anne took their first family vacation. Tragedy soon struck when Nayer's father and mother tried to light a gas water heater that exploded.
Novels and memoirs about the damages of childhood beg to become tear-jerking orgies. What kept me reading was Torres' dry-eyed control over his material. Edited with obsessive care, he hasn't allowed that to happen.