36 months ago, I started composing 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 during the Civil War. I consciously started the story plot for my grandchildren; and I needed something to fill an emptiness in me as a result of the loss of my cherished mother, and another special woman in my life. They died within two months of one another.
Every time 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 course of action was penning.
Immediately after losing those I treasured, it felt like something was barring my agony and safeguarding me from the cruelty and despair related to death. To this day, there's no doubt that it had been the Holy Spirit helping me through essentially the most hardship during my life. You many choose to call it different things, but I believe it was the Holy Spirit. Ultimately 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 age sixty-one, I sat at my computer; I started to craft, and I began to mend. I commenced writing a novel devoid of the full appreciation of what I was getting into. I didn't stop to think about the number 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 very little time-line for when I needed to finish; and no one could dictate to me when it would be finished. It required a long time; not a day, not a month, not just one year, but two full years.
With the exception of the first three pages of my book, I didn't 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 what I was writing, except my hubby.
The more often I wrote, the greater I needed to create. Writing provided an avenue to cry, to laugh, and have an adventure. Unknowingly, I had created my very own support group with the characters within my story. For me, it had become a secure place to share my feelings and work through my grief. I also found a means for me to appreciate those I lost.
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