3 years ago, I started simply writing a fiction for tweens, Belle in the Slouch Hat. It is a story about a young girl who looks for revenge after her brother was killed in the Civil War. I purposely started the storyline for my grandchildren; and I needed something to fill an emptiness in me as a result of the loss of my dearest mother, and another special woman in my life. They died within two months of one another.
When someone we love dies, we will need to grieve; there is no way to avoid it. Everyone must go through the sorrow and pain in their own individual way. My course of action was penning.
Immediately after losing those I treasured, it felt just as if something was obstructing my agony and protecting me through the harshness and unhappiness resulting from death. To this day, there’s no doubt that it was the Holy Spirit helping me through by far the most difficult times in my life. You many choose to call it different things, but I believe it was the Holy Spirit. Eventually after that, the reality of the deaths set in and I had no choice but to endure the next phase of losing someone you cherish, the grieving process.
At age sixy-one, I sat at my computer; I began to write, and I began to heal. I started writing a novel devoid of the full appreciation of what I was stepping into. I didn’t stop take into account the amount of hours that I would so willingly give to it, nor did I stop to think there was a correct way of doing it, all I know was I had to write. Sometimes it was down-right physically, mentally, and emotionally painful; other times, I felt drained of every once of energy in my body. Occasionally, my sense of meaning and my most treasured beliefs about life were challenged.
There was clearly hardly any schedule for when I needed to finish; and no one could influence to me when it would be finished. It required a lot of time; not just a day, not only a month, not one year, but two full years.
Aside from the very first three pages of my book, I did not produce an order, or a plot ot follow, I just needed to write. I even built a imaginary barrier around me and didn’t want anyone to know precisely what I was writing, except my hubby.
The more often I wrote, the greater I desired to write. Writing gave me an avenue to cry, to laugh, and also have an adventure. Unknowingly, I had structured my very own support group with the personas in my story. For me, it absolutely was a safe setting to share my emotions and process my suffering. I also found the best way for me to commenorate those I loved.
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