Three years ago, I started simply writing a fiction for tweens, Belle in the Slouch Hat. This is a story about a young girl who seeks revenge after her brother was killed in the Civil War. I purposely started the storyplot for my grandchildren; and I needed something to fill an emptiness in me due to the loss of my loved mother, and another special woman in my life. They died within two months of each other.
When ever someone we love dies, we have to grieve; there is no way to avoid it. Everyone must undergo the sadness and agony in their own personal way. My method was writing.
Once the loss of those I loved, it felt just as if something was barring my hurting and guarding me through the harshness and sadness most typically associated with death. To this day, In my opinion ıt had been the Holy Spirit helping me through one of the most hardship during my life. You many decide to call it something different, 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 undergo the next phase of losing someone you care about, the grieving process.
At the age of sixy-one, I sat at my computer; I began to write, and I started to heal. I jumped right into writing a novel but without the full awareness of what I was stepping into. I didn’t stop thinking about the amount of hours in which 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 virtually no timeline for when I needed to finish; and no one could stipulate to me when it would be finished. It required a lot of time; not a day, not only a month, not just one year, but two full years.
Excepting the very first three pages of my book, I did not have 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 fully understand precisely what I was writing, except my husband.
The more I wrote, the more I need to to write. Writing gave me an outlet to cry, to laugh, and also have an adventure. Unconsciously, I had structured my own, personal support group with the characters within my story. For me, it was a safe setting to express my emotions and work through my suffering. I also found the best way for me to commenorate those I loved.
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