I had just started to write my fourth novel when Michael Jackson died. The hole rent into our universe by his passing was so vast and painful that I could barely stand it. I had always considered of him a member of our family, though he didn't know us. The kids had grown up with his music and appearances and had even been mistaken for him on occasion. I never believed any of the accusations against him, and thought that somehow they would all go away by themselves and that he would triumph in the end—as in any good movie or book.

It was obvious to me that he was not capable of hurting a child--not before 1993, during 1993, or thereafter. The truth was on his face, in his eyes, in his humanitarian acts, in his creations. I was grateful when so many of his fans came to support him during the 2005 trial. Their daily outpouring of love reminded Michael that THEY believed in him and were not afraid to show it to the world.

After the fourteen not-guilty counts were read in the courtroom, I expected him to go on with his music. Instead, he got hounded out of the country. His career seemed permanently over, and the ranch he loved and had transformed into a wonderland now sucked up an income that was dwindling fast since he had no way of generating new money. And still, I thought he would somehow land on his feet, that the boy who accused him in 1993 would gather enough courage to confess the truth. All would be well.

Instead, Michael died. Along with countless others who mourned him, I felt cheated. This genius who sought only to give his best had been kept from giving it to us. We were the losers. Immediately after his death, haters went into action. On YouTube. In the comment section under salacious news headlines. False acquaintances with an axe to grind were giving paid interviews to the tabloids. Hastily cobbled-together TV specials consisting of rumors and lies were now ravaging the only thing Michael had left—his chance of the legacy he so richly deserved.

A great wrong had been done and was now being perpetuated. It was because of my outrage and grief that I decided to put Michael into my novel, VOID. When I listed it with Amazon I called it an alternative history. That's what it is. Since the events of 1993 were so pivotal to the rest of his life, I was determined to create a different outcome for that case. It felt good to give Michael the life he should have had. While I was writing VOID, I could feel his presence, could feel him looking over my shoulder, whispering to me. It wasn't until I was finished with the final page of the last draft that the grief returned and once more engulfed me.

During the Conrad Murray trial, lies and innuendo are once more being perpetuated by the media. But things have changed. His kids are a beautiful legacy no one can ignore, just by being themselves. Fans have constructed impressive blogs and websites celebrating Michael. Their knowledge is profound. I am often amazed at the amount of untruths they are fact-checking, dissecting, disproving and rejecting. The accurate history they have built for Michael is still growing as more and more people are willing to come forth with their personal experiences with the King of Pop. These days, none of us are grieving alone. And we keep reminding ourselves of who he was—and reminding his retractors.

VOID is a novel, not a documentary. It features this larger-than-life icon in a slightly changed form, distilling the underlying truth of who he was and continues to be as long as his music lives on—which will be forever.  Writing the book was a labor of love.
 


Comments

07/18/2012 19:57

Found this from the Weebly directory, great blog.

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07/18/2012 21:03

@CFNM Thank you. I appreciate your reply.

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