Several years ago, I started formulating a fiction for tweens, Belle in the Slouch Hat. It’s a story about a young girl who seeks revenge after her brother was killed while in the Civil War. I purposely started the story for my grandchildren; and I needed something to fill an emptiness in me due to the loss of my precious mother, and another special woman in my life. They died within two months of each other.
Whenever someone we love dies, we will need to grieve; there is no way to avoid it. Everyone must move through the sorrow and heartache in their own way. My strategy was penning.
Immediately after losing those I adored, it felt like something was hindering my suffering and preserving me through the harshness and unhappiness connected to death. To this day, I really believe it was the Holy Spirit helping me through one of the difficult times during my life. You many decide to call it different things, but I believe it was the Holy Spirit. Shortly after that, the reality of the deaths set in and I had no choice but to undergo the next phase of losing someone you adore, the grieving process.
At age sixy-one, I sat at my computer; I started to compose, and I began to heal. I started out writing a novel without the full appreciation of what I was coming 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 seemed to be virtually no schedule for when I needed to finish; and no one could stipulate to me when it could be finished. It required considerable time; not a day, not only a month, not just one year, but two full years.
Aside from the very first three pages of my book, I didn’t provide 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 realize just what exactly I was writing, except my better half.
The more often I wrote, the greater I want to to create. Writing gave me an avenue to cry, to laugh, and also have an adventure. Unconsciously, I had created my very own support group with the personalities inside my story. For me, it had become a safe setting to share my emotions and sort out my suffering. I also found a means for me to commenorate those I loved.
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