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"You know what you're good at?" A friend recently pointed out, "You set some wildly ambitious goal, then figure out how you're going to do it. Most people first try to figure out IF they can do it before starting."

Perhaps. This was certainly the case in writing my first book, A Thousand Sisters. The thought I want to write a book came way before I had any knowledge of publishing, or writing prose for that matter. I had to be honest: I knew next to nothing about the craft of writing. And craft is all we've got control over. My secret weapon? As a native Portlander, when in doubt, I ran straight to Powell's. Especially after I sold the book proposal, fear of public humiliation and failure sent me back to Powell's many times.

First, someone advised rather than get overwhelmed with drafting a full book, I should just focus first on writing a book proposal. So I ran out to Powell's to pick up some books on how to write a book proposal. I bought three, so I could cross reference them for what was standard. They were camped on my desk throughout the drafting of the book proposal. How To Write a Book Proposal 3rd Edition by Michael Larsen, Nonfiction Book Proposals Anybody Can Write by Elizabeth Lyon, Bulletproof Book Proposals by Pam Brodowsky.

But even with great reference materials and a road map, motivation became an issue. I spent 6 months on the book proposal... not making progress... until I ran across an ass-kicking book I now recommend to everyone: The War of Art. A life changer. When my friends complain about creative blocks or feeling scared or lost or not-quite-ready to do what they want with their lives, this is my "take two pills and call me in the morning" recommendation. Bottom line: I read The War of Art. I sat my butt down in a chair. I wrote the book proposal. I sold the book proposal. I wrote the book. I "went pro."

Structure, Structure, Structure. Once I was on a deadline, I invested a lot of time in nailing story's structure before writing a full draft. I couldn't afford to the time to scrap a bunch of polished work because the basic bones of the story didn't work. Though I was writing a memoir, I turned to the only story structure I knew: the screenplay. It's amazing how real life echoes story structure. It became the perfect guide for what to include and what to leave out.

1. Cynthia Whitcomb. Writing Your Screenplay. A local screenwriting guru, she is a pro's pro. She's sold more than 70 scripts — and more than 30 have actually been produced. I took her intro class twice, master class, and pitching class. Her left brain/right brain writing approach was great — as in, learn when to turn off your inner critic, please! The technology of love stories, basic structure, less is more in dialogue... all of it. Fewer words, more emotion.

2. Blake Snyder's Save the Cat. I did multiple workshops with Blake Snyder, including hosting twice here in Portland... it turned out to be one of the best investments I've made. Golden material. Sadly, at 52 years old, Blake died suddenly in August, only a week after I turned in my manuscript to my publisher. Just the 15 beats alone are one of the best writing tools out there. And, of course, the board, which I used.

(I read Robert McKee and took his workshops, too. Classic, but if I may be honest, his "it must be brilliant" approach is the antithesis of how I work. Thinking from the outside in, measure results before writing just froze me up.)

Voice. I got a tip from one from an editor at Runner's World: "Just write it as though it is a letter to one of your best friends." A key guide for me in letting go, being raw and emotionally transparent, not allowing language to get to precious or fancy.

Also, a classic book by William Zinsser, On Writing Well: The Classic Guide to Writing Nonfiction. He basically said confidence is essential — you just have to let go and let it flow. It helped me get over early criticism on my first few chapters, which had paralyzed me for weeks.

And finally, Reading Like a Writer: A Guide for People Who Love Books and for Those Who Want to Write Them by Francine Prose. This book was at my side through the entire drafting process. Brilliant and so practical. I read it, then wrote with several books camped on my desk through every draft. As Ms. Prose suggests, if I were ever stuck with a technical problem, I would check how books I loved handled the problem. Among my essential stack of books on my desk, either for love or as dictated by the market: Scribbling the Cat, Dispatches from the Edge, Into the Wild, Th

A Thousand Sisters is my first book. My first pro writing gig, for that matter. When I sat down to draft, I found myself in deep water. The proposition: Write a personal account of the deadliest war since World War II, through the intimate lens of friendship. My goal was to bring readers along with me on my journey to Congo so they could meet and bond with my sisters as I did; my hope was to engage them in the movement for Congo.

But how do I write honestly about the off-the-charts horrors in Congo that in our popular vernacular many would label "unspeakable" and "unthinkable"? Do these stories motivate? Or do they cause us to shut down and shut Congo out?

One of my sisters' stories is the quintessential example of this, excerpted from A Thousand Sisters:

"I was in my house preparing food for my husband when they came," she says. "They made me prepare food for them, then asked me to wake my husband, who was asleep. They demanded money. I had US$130, and I gave it to them, but they didn't care. They said, 'The US$130 was the nurse's participation. The husband is head of the school. He has to make his contribution.'

"My husband said, 'I have nothing.'

"They started to beat him, so I cried for help. The Interahamwe shot him immediately, killing him.

"I continued to cry to alert other people. They said, 'Shut your mouth. Put your leg on the chair.'

"They took a machete and cut off my leg. We had six children at home; one was my sister's child. The Interahamwe cut the leg into six parts and burnt them in the fire. They gave each child a piece of my leg and commanded them to eat.

"One of the children said, 'I can't eat a part of my mother. You already killed my father, so you will have to kill me.'

"They killed my child.

"They tried to burn the house. The children got us out. They took me to the garden outside. Because of the burning of the house, because of despair, because of the loss of blood, I was like a dead person."

When I returned from my first trip to the Congo, I told Generose's story twice. After gauging audience response, I didn't tell it again for a year and half.

In that period, I knew I wanted to write a book, but was stuck. What do I include? What would be too much? In an online video clip Philip Gourevitch, author of the genocide classic We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed with Our Families: Stories from Rwanda, posed a basic question: In our popular dialogue on these issues, people use the words "unthinkable" and "unspeakable" which allow us to posture as though we have dealt with the issue, when in fact we haven't dealt with it at all. He asked, "What is a journalist's job if not to think and speak?"

As writers and activists, it's our duty to tell the truth. But how do we make that truth palatable to a broad readership?

As I reviewed my 70 hours of videotaped interviews, filled with hundreds of stories of "the trouble I got from war," I discovered something. In my pursuit of Congo horror stories, there were a lot of questions I didn't ask. Like who was lost. I hadn't even asked their names.

Before I could draft a book, I had to go back to Congo, armed with different questions:

Inside, we pull the curtains closed and wait for the neighbors and children to disperse, so we can talk privately. It's dusk and we talk by candlelight. I ask about her son.

"He was a child I loved so much," she tells me. "The fact that he is the only one who refused to eat a part of me marked my heart."

"Do you remember the last thing you said to your child?"

"What I remember is the last speech he gave to the killer."

"What did he say?" I ask.

"To his father's killer, he said, 'I do not accept to eat a part of my mother.' They said, 'Then we are going to kill you.' He said, 'If you kill me, kill me. But I will not eat a part of my mother.'" Generose spaces out, slowly rocking back and forth, while Maurice translates, "They said, 'Then you better pray, because you are going to die.'

"He said, 'You're asking me to pray to God? Why? I do not love you. I am angry with you. How can I pray to God when I have such a bad heart against you?'"

We are quiet for a moment. Then I ask her, "What did the soldiers say?"

"They said nothing. They shot him. I heard the sound of many bullets, but what I saw was the one that entered here." She points to the middle of her forehead.

"What was his name?"

"Lucien."

"And your husband?"

"Claude."

"What was he like as a person, a man, a husband?" I ask.

"The type of husband I dreamed of since I was a child. Someone very tall, who's not a drunk and doesn't smoke. When I met him, he had all these qualities, and I said, 'This is the man.'

"As a husband, he was responsible. As the father of my children, he was responsible up to the end of his life. He had a habit. When I was very tired he would say, 'Today, it is not your chore. I will prepare food for the whole family.' He prepared eggs and rice. That was his dish. This created a problem with his family. They said, 'How can a man prepare food for his wife? This must be a problem of witchcraft.'

"But there was no witchcraft. Only love."

"What do you miss about your husband?"

She doesn't hesitate. "When I was pregnant, very heavy with a baby, my husband would wash my body. It was very intimate."

Is it that Congo is too much? Or is it unbearable to see human beings strictly through the lens of horror? Are we only seeing half of the story?

Do we define the narrative of Congo by the questions we ask? How does our experience of Generose's story change when the questions change? Why so personal? Is it relevant?

When we deal with the violence in abstract, intellectual realms, we make room for pity. That is a tremendous first step. But for compassion, we must be willing to feel with Congolese. An easy way to do that is to get to know them. When we see Congolese people for the full human beings, the individuals they have always been — with loves and quirks and family bonds — the losses become real and personal.

And the personal is essential. We cannot measure the human cost of the war when we define people strictly by the violence they endure, any more than you can measure a human being by the few moments of violence at their life's end. We cannot leave out half the story. Learning this was a critical piece of my own journey.

I recently saw a program on PBS about genocide. The documentarian made a simple argument: To stop genocide (and I would add mass atrocity), two things need to happen:

1. The cost/benefit equation for the perpetrators must change.

2. We have to shift the way we to

Oxfam has just released a startling new report. We've known anecdotally for years that rape in Congo has spread. With no judicial system, eastern Congo is effectively a lawless state. With no consequences, a culture of impunity has emerged. Young men with guns — militias and Congolese army alike — rape without fear of consequences. Now civilian attacks have increased 17-fold. The report is a horrific reminder of what happens when we stand by and do nothing.

The report:

DR Congo rape crisis 'increasing' despite peacekeepers, Oxfam report says

As many as 14 women are raped every day in eastern Democratic Republic of Congo, almost half of them in broad daylight and more than half in their own homes, according to a study published on Thursday.

A majority were raped by soldiers or armed rebels, but the Oxfam and Harvard Humanitarian Initiative report found a 17-fold increase in attacks by civilians between 2004 and 2008.

Congo's eastern provinces have been plagued by conflict for more than two decades.

Rape has become a weapon for the warring factions still fighting there despite the presence of the world's largest UN peacekeeping mission, which has almost 20,000 troops in the country.

"Rape of this scale and brutality is scandalous," said Krista Riddley, director of humanitarian policy at Oxfam.

"This is a wake-up call at a time when plans are being discussed for UN peacekeepers to leave the country. The situation is not secure if a woman can't even sleep safely in her own bed at night.

"Peacekeepers must continue to play a vital role in creating security while the Congolese government builds up its own capacity to keep civilians from harm." The researchers interviewed 4,311 female rape victims treated at the Panzi hospital in South Kivu province over a four year period, making this the largest such study of its kind.

More than 5,000 women were raped in South Kivu alone during 2009, according to the UN.

This stigma of the attack leads to delays in seeking treatment, with only 12 percent of the women coming to Panzi within a month of the assault.

Over 50 percent of women waited more than a year before seeking treatment, with a significant number waiting more than three years.

÷ ÷ ÷

What can we do?

Start by traveling with me to Congo... from the safety of your own couch. Read A Thousand Sisters, meet these women, get to know them: My sister who had a baby by gang rape and named the child "Gift from God." A five-year-old girl healing from fistula. The heroic Congolese woman who speaks out about what happened to her, even when she is the only one of her many raped neighbors who is willing to speak. Or the rape survivor who asked, "How can we manage and improve so we can become women who help other women?"

Then do one concrete thing to stop the violence.

Visit

I noticed Ghisalne outside in the crowd: she is a "Little Person." Looking at her sponsorship booklet, her sponsor line reads "Lisa Shannon," not "Run for Congo Women." She is one of my own, private sisters. As the group settles into the dim training room, Ghislane sits in a dark shadow in the corner. I can barely make her out.

When it comes her turn, Ghislane speaks in a sweet, gentle voice. "At first I was reluctant. I wouldn't be in a crowd of other people. They would laugh at me. I asked my parents if I should join. They told me from a young age they would throw me away. They would not remain with a person like me. I lost self-acceptance.

"As a child, I was a babysitter, watching children laughing, joking with babies. For 12 years, I did childcare. I was not paid. I loved it so much, I did it for free.

"I was out cultivating the fields with four other girls when the Congolese Army soldiers came. They took all four of us. All seven men raped me. My mother was in the field. She wasn't raped, but she knew.

"I got pregnant. I wanted an abortion, but my Mother refused. I went to the hospital, I wanted to get an abortion there, but they said it was not possible because I was too close to term."

"What was it like to hold a baby you got from rape?"

"I was happy to have a child who was healthy. I could not reject him."

"What did you name him?"

"Shuza. It means 'answer.'"

"He was learning how to sit upright just before he died. He was coughing one day, after he had a fever, we took him to the hospital, but the next day he died. He was five months old."

"After the death of my child, I went back to the activity I like: keeping after children. I had stopped when I had my own child.

"It was like my life started when I got into this organization. I was trained in breeding. I have animals at my place. I sell them when I want money: 7 Hens, 3 goats, 20 guinea pigs, and 8 rabbits. If I'm in need of money, I can sell part of them."

Ghisalne has just given birth to a new baby.

"Congratulations. Are you married?"

She smiles. "I am a single mother."

"What about the dad?"

"Never mind about the man. The important thing is I have a baby."

I explain that my sister was a young single mother, who raised my niece with our parents' support.

"Is there anything you want for the future?" I ask her.

"I'm happy. What you've done for me is enough to set you as my sister and my friend."

"There are people your size all over the world. In the U.S. they have societies and conventions. They come together. There's even a TV show about a family of 'Little People' — like you."

"I thank you so much because I did lose hope. Now I've received another parent who can share my feelings with me. Life here is not easy. But I don't complain about my size. I'm proud of what I am. I feel like other women, so now I feel proud of

Cut from the first draft of A Thousand Sisters: My Journey into the Worst Place on Earth to Be a Woman, this chapter tells the story of my sister Venciana. It was scrapped from the book because it simply didn't fit the story structure and narrative flow.

She has been waiting here on the couch for hours, on the off chance I will drop by the Women for Women offices on a Saturday. I recognize her from her photo: Venciana. She heard I was in town, but missed our scheduled group meeting. This is no joyful reunion. She is young — maybe 25 — but reserved and distant.

She holds a limp, snotty baby on her lap, and her other kids are sick at home. We drive to the outskirts of Bukavu, brainstorming a grand scheme to give her $60 to launch a chicken and egg business. We park the car and walk, winding our way past an abandoned warehouse, over footbridges patched together with wood, mud, and plastic. Up an old, undriveable road that looks more like a riverbed. The locals are not used to seeing whities in these parts, so we attract plenty of blank stares and beckons from curious children.

The slum's shacks grow farther apart the higher we ascend the hillside, giving way to small terraced plots with panoramic views of Lake Kivu. After a half hour walk, we arrive at Veniciana's 10' x 10' mud hut. Her oldest daughter practically looks her age, already taller than her mother. She is around 13, shy but healthy. I can't say the same for her younger siblings, who range from five years old to the baby — all swollen bellied, snotty nosed, sober, and droopy. Inside her hut, one of her kids is crashed out on the bed, among piles of clutter. He barely stirs. The kids are sick.

"Let's take them to the doctor. Where is the nearest clinic?"

"It will be difficult to go with all of the children. I can take them later with the neighbor's help."

I see where this is going, "I can't give you cash for their treatment."

"The children will have difficulty to walk."

"We can strap one on my back, Raymond can carry one..."

She disengages, sits down, facing away from me. Dr. Roger has explained what desperately cash-strapped moms do when their kids get sick: They go directly to the market and buy cheaper medicine. The problem is, often the dosage is way off or it is a placebo, and the kids die.

"Can we talk?"

"We can talk." She says, with her back to me.

"I understand you that you need money. But we need to be honest so we can solve the problem — medical treatment or chickens? Or both? Are the children sick?"

"In reality, all the children were ill, now they've stopped vomiting. They are still lethargic. It must be children's illness. But the baby needs treatment."

We take the baby and walk to the local clinic, packed with mothers and sick babies. It all may sound dramatic, but there is nothing sexy about hours in clinic corridors, waiting on blood tests or paying the pharmacy. The diagnosis? "Malaria and parasites." The treatment is $20 for everything, including injections, pills, and infusion.

Venciana is unamused, "Even the other children present the same signs. During the day they are okay, during the night they have a fever. All day, they have drippy noses, headaches..."

The nurse says, "Those are the signs of malaria."

I pay the clinic $80 for all four, wondering what Internally Displaced Person would ever have the cash to access these basic treatments.

It may be the best $80 I've ever spent.

Later, I talk with Venciana about how she ended up here in Bukavu.

"Interahamwe. Interahamwe... Yes, it was the Interahamwe. Just after we got married, Interahamwe started to coming. I remember well. It was the middle of the night when we heard people crying. I was eight months pregnant. We left the house in silence. We had one goat. We took the goat with us and went outside. When running, we realized the Interahamwe were in front of us. We hid behind a hill. Everyone was in the forest. That night we spent hiding in the bush. They burnt six houses. Our house was among them. Only in the morning we saw they were killed." One of the babies hugs her mom and her baby sister. It hadn't occurred to me the conversation is not for children. "We saw the bodies in the morning. I lost my grandfather and two cousins. We could see it was by guns."

"We were hoping the war would end, but it continued." She is cool, detached, instinctively tugging at the hem of her daughter's skirt. Children creep in behind her, cling to Mom. "A few days after our arrival at our in-laws, that village was also attacked. Again, we had to spend the night in the bush. Spending night in forest is very painful. We ran with our blanket only. When you are extremely tired, you sleep on the grass, covered in a blanket. If it rains, you are wet. There is nowhere to go. That's how we passed all our nights.

"Once in second village, as they knew Interahamwe had habits, they sent old people, and women were sleeping in the bush. The villagers organized a group of security. Young men slept in the village, a kind of security in the village, a lookout for Interahamwe. My husband was among the group.

"The day he was taken away, I lost hope. Normally, the group came to inform us about the night. That morning, we saw nobody. We thought immediately the whole group of young men were taken. I know whenever they take a young person, he can't return to the village. After carrying their baggage, the last young people must be killed. I felt upset knowing this was the end of my marriage, the end of my husband.

"Fortunately, after one and a half days, he came back to me. It was a joy. It was like a party between the two of us."

Later, I will speak to Venciana's husband about that night. "I was among 15 young men taken to forest. We had to carry heavy baggage with them. But two of us said they were really very, very tired. They can't continue, or they will die on the way. So Interahamwe said, 'Okay, if you want a rest, you'll be given a rest.' And they killed the two persons. Others were very, very afraid.

"In the middle of the way, after one and half days, we were obliged to take a rest. I ran away in the middle of the night. They chased me, but they didn't catch me. They shot, but fortunately the bullet didn't hit me. I went back to my village and asked my wife to move."

"So they use men like pack-horses, and exterminate them as soon as they get to the camp?"

"They take the men only to carry baggage. Once there, they kill them."

"Like disposable people."

"That's why they're looking for villagers. The real problem was some pretend member of village joining us to capture us. That's when we decided to leave. After awhile, Interahamwe knew there was nobody in the village. They had to get someone who has run from another village who would speak our own dialect, which is Moshi. So you think they are a friend or a member of the village. When you talk to him, you realize immediately he is not one of the group. He takes Interahamwe to you. It didn't happen to us, but it happened to our neighbors, some young persons. When it happened, we had to move. One day, the friend we were hiding with told us he was going to leave, as he