I didn't fit into the Christian college my parents sent me to. I felt tarnished by tragedy, between my brother's death and Escuela Caribe, and everyone else seemed so carefree and happy and praising God. I couldn't stand happy people for a long time, and was plagued by chronic migraines and stomach aches. I'd say between age thirteen and twenty-three was the most miserable time of my life. I wrote Jesus Land because I wanted there to be a record of David's life. I was surprised that so many people read it, and felt moved by it.

I was working on a satirical novel about a charismatic preacher who takes over a small Indiana town. Then I remembered Jim Jones was from Indiana and Googled him. I learned that the FBI had recently released all the documents that agents collected from Jonestown after the massacre - over 50,000 pieces of paper and almost 1,000 audio tapes. I started reading the files and couldn't tear myself away; I find "true" stories inherently more powerful than fiction.

I spent so much time at Escuela Caribe denying my true emotions and avoiding conflict that I became unsure of what my feelings really were. This is something that affects me to this day. I feel extremely uncomfortable during arguments, to the point of shutting down and not saying anything, like a turtle retracting into its shell. I can't stand conflict.

I choose now to live in Berkeley, California, which is a progressive refuge, despite the fact that I can't afford to buy a house here. It's important to me that my children grow up in a place where everything is questioned, examined and debated.

Jim Jones wanted his people to believe the establishment was trying to kill him because whites were threatened by his message of racial equality. He used the incident to close ranks and turn anyone who disagreed with him into a menace. He warned his congregation that a would be assassin might try to infiltrate their church, so they had to prove their loyalty to him by never questioning his orders. Dissenters became traitors.

Before I went to Escuela Caribe, my parents showed me the school's brochures featuring smiling kids at the beach or on horseback. The propaganda was greatly appealing to a kid from rural Indiana who hated her high school anyway. I also got reassurances that I could return if I didn't like it. But shortly after the gates closed behind me, I learned I'd been deceived; the beach was far away and I couldn't return home until I'd completed the program.

I remember one of my writer friends asking me, "Jonestown? Everyone knows the ending. What's new or surprising that you can say about it?" I told him that although people may know that almost one thousand people died in the massacre, they don't know what happens to my five people. Some escaped, some did not.