Several years ago, I started penning a fiction for tweens, Belle in the Slouch Hat. This is a story about a young girl who looks for revenge after her brother was killed in the Civil War. I consciously started the storyline for my grandchildren; and I needed something to fill an emptiness in me as a consequence of the losing my loved mother, and another special woman during 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 move through the sadness and pain in their own way. My approach was writing.
Immediately after the loss of those I loved, it felt as if something was stopping my agony and guarding me from the harshness and misery in connection with death. To this day, I do believe it was the Holy Spirit helping me through one of the trying times during my life. You many determine to call it something different, but I believe it was the Holy Spirit. Immediately 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 care about, the grieving process.
At the age of sixy-one, I sat at my computer; I started to write, and I began to recover. I started off writing a novel but without the full knowledge of what I was stepping into. I didn’t stop to bear in mind the volume 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 no schedule for when I needed to finish; and no one could determine to me when it might be finished. It required lots of time; not just a day, not a month, not one year, but two full years.
Excluding the primary three pages of my book, I did not have an order, or a plot ot follow, I just wanted to write. I even built a imaginary barrier around me and didn’t want anyone to fully understand exactly what I was writing, except my husband.
The more I wrote, the greater I need to to write. Writing gave me an avenue to cry, to laugh, and have a journey. Unknowingly, I had shaped my very own support group with the personas in my story. For me, it had become a secure setting to share my ideas and work through my tremendous saddness. I also found the best way for me to commenorate those I loved.
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