Three years ago, I started penning a fiction for tweens, Belle in the Slouch Hat. This is a story about a young girl who wants revenge after her brother was killed while in the Civil War. I purposely started the tale for my grandchildren; and I needed something to fill an emptiness in me because of the loss of my dearest 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 endure the sadness and heartache in their own individual way. My plan was penning.
Following the loss of those I treasured, it felt as if something was obstructing my agony and preserving me through the harshness and gloominess linked to death. To this day, I believe it had been the Holy Spirit helping me through the single most hardship in my life. You many decide upon 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 endure the next phase of losing someone you love, the grieving process.
At the age of sixty-one, I sat at my computer; I began to craft, and I started to get better. I started off writing a novel minus the full knowledge of what I was stepping into. I didn’t stop to contemplate how many 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 virtually no schedule for when I needed to finish; and no one could specify to me when it might be finished. It required lots of time; not just a day, not a month, not just one year, but two full years.
Apart from the initial three pages of my book, I didn’t provide 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 realize just what exactly I was writing, except my husband.
The more I wrote, the greater I want to to write. Writing provided an outlet to cry, to laugh, and have a journey. Unconsciously, I had structured my very own support group with the personae in my story. For me, it had become a secure setting to express my inner thoughts and work through my suffering. I also found the best way for me to commemorate those I loved.
Anytime someone we love dies, we have to grieve; there is no way to avoid it. Everyone must move through the sorrow and heartache in their own way. My way was writing.
Just after losing those I dearly loved, it felt almost like something was barring my agony and preserving me from the harshness and depression connected with death. To this day, I really believe ıt had been the Holy Spirit helping me through the single most hardship during 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 endure the next phase of losing someone you care about, the grieving process.
At the age of sixty-one, I sat at my computer; I started to write, and I started to recover. I started out writing a novel minus the full knowledge of what I was engaging in. I didn’t stop take into consideration the number 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 hardly any schedule for when I needed to finish; and no one could influence to me when it would be finished. It required a long time; not a day, not a month, not one year, but two full years.
Excluding the first three pages of my book, I didn’t provide 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 exactly what I was writing, except my better half.
The more I wrote, the greater I needed to create. Writing gave me an outlet to cry, to laugh, and have an adventure. Unconsciously, I had formed my personal support group with the individuals within my story. For me, it absolutely was a safe setting to share my thinking and process my grief. I also found a way for me to commemorate those I loved.
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