Living With The Pain By Writing From The Extraordinary Difficulties

Three years ago, I started crafting a fiction for tweens, Belle in the Slouch Hat. It’s a story about a young girl who looks for revenge after her brother was killed during the Civil War. I consciously started the story for my grandchildren; and I needed something to fill an emptiness in me as a consequence of the losing my precious mother, and another special woman during my life. They died within two months of each other.

When someone we love dies, we have to grieve; there is no way to avoid it. Everyone must experience the sadness and heartache in their own personal way. My method was writing.

Once the loss of those I loved, it felt just as if something was hindering my suffering and shielding me from the harshness and misery in connection with death. To this day, there’s no doubt that ıt had been the Holy Spirit helping me through just about the most trying times in my life. You many decide to call it something different, but I believe it was the Holy Spirit. Soon after that, the reality of the deaths set in and I had no choice but to go through the next phase of losing someone you cherish, the grieving process.

At the age of sixty-one, I sat at my computer; I began to write, and I began to heal. I commenced writing a novel devoid of the full comprehension of what I was stepping into. I didn’t stop to take into account the volume of hours 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 hardly any schedule for when I needed to finish; and no one could dictate to me when it could be finished. It required a lot of time; not just a day, not only a month, not just one year, but two full years.

Excepting the initial 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 find out precisely what I was writing, except my better half.

The more often I wrote, the more I want to to write. Writing gave me an outlet to cry, to laugh, and have an adventure. Unknowingly, I had put together my own, personal support group with the personae in my story. For me, it was a safe setting to share my feelings and sort out my grief. I also found the best way for me to commemorate those I lost.

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