This article originally appeared in Huffington Post.
She was a force.
Many people have spoken of the tenacity, brilliance and compassion that drove Iris Chang, an American author and journalist best known for her best-selling 1997 account of the Nanking Massacre, The Rape of Nanking, to achieve so much in her short life. She was a thinker, someone who dreamed big and accomplished even greater things driven by a passion to tell a story that needed to be told.
“Civilization is tissue thin,” Iris wrote. She called this the most important lesson to be learned from the tragedy of Nanking. And she believed her research produced irrevocable proof of Japanese atrocities. She wrote:
“After reading several file cabinets’ worth of documents on Japanese war crimes as well as accounts of ancient atrocities from the pantheon of world history, I would have to conclude that Japan’s behavior during World War II was less a product of dangerous people than of a dangerous government, in a vulnerable culture, in dangerous times, able to sell dangerous rationalizations to those whose human instincts told them otherwise.”
The book hit the stores at Christmas, a tough selling season for serious nonfiction. It became a surprise best-seller. A groundswell of interest in the Chinese American community had quickly spread to booksellers and the broader reading public. Newsweek ran an excerpt, and soon Iris was a familiar face on TV news shows. Reader’s Digest devoted a cover story to her.
Like others who were in awe of her as a confident young woman who excelled at everything she put her mind to, I feel my attempts to write anything are futile. Especially stories that are rooted in our shared Chinese American background.
Would my stories have the ferocious yet compassionate lens on a human experience? Could I create something as resonant for my reader?
Something that has the power to comfort the troubled, and trouble the comfortable?
It would be very easy to give up and take up knitting. To brush off the demon who is dancing on my shoulder daring me to write my story. To turn away from the story I have been longing to tell.
But I know I won’t because my belief in my story is as strong as Iris Chang’s belief in hers. She knew how words could bring to life the silent narratives of people with no voice. And that we have to write them.
That is what I tell myself when I sit down to write.
I often wonder if the stars feel like this when the sun rises.
Do they think, “Oh great, now that he’s here we might as well fizzle out. Who’s going to even see us?”
But sunrise happens everyday. And so does sunset, which is followed by a dusk, twilight and yes, the stars. The light of the stars at that moment has its own magic and wonder.
If any of you have ever felt like this, rekindle the passion you have for the story inside of you until it burns bright with an inner flame and tell it.
You may not be a snowflake, but you can dream of being a star.
About the Author: Hoong Yee Lee Krakauer helps artists & creative people grow their careers with great grant writing strategies & mindsets she has developed over 15 years as an veteran grant panelist, grant maker & grant writer. Get her FREE Master Grant Strategy Worksheet and a weekly dose of insights from a grant reviewer’s point of view.