36 months ago, I started penning a fiction for tweens, Belle in the Slouch Hat. This is 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 as a consequence of the loss of my beloved mother, and another special woman in my life. They died within two months of one another.
In the event that someone we love dies, we will need to grieve; there is no way to avoid it. Everyone must move through the sadness and heartache in their own individual way. My way was writing.
Immediately after the loss of those I adored, it felt as though something was obstructing my hurting and protecting me through the harshness and unhappiness because of death. To this day, In my opinion it had been the Holy Spirit helping me through probably the most trying times during my life. You many choose to call it something different, 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 cherish, the grieving process.
At the age of sixty-one, I sat at my computer; I began to compose, and I began to get better. I started out writing a novel devoid of the full knowledge of what I was engaging in. I didn’t stop thinking about how many 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 time-line for when I needed to finish; and no one could stipulate 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.
Apart from 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 know what exactly I was writing, except my better half.
The more often I wrote, the greater I desired to write. Writing gave me an avenue to cry, to laugh, and also have an adventure. Unknowingly, I had formed my personal support group with the individuals inside my story. For me, it had become a secure place to share my thinking and work through my suffering. I also found a way for me to commemorate those I loved.
When ever someone we love dies, we will need to grieve; there is no way to avoid it. Everyone must experience the sadness and pain in their own personal way. My strategy was penning.
Immediately after losing those I treasured, it felt as if something was stopping my suffering and protecting me through the harshness and depression most typically associated with death. To this day, there’s no doubt that it had been the Holy Spirit helping me through essentially the most hardship in my life. You many decide upon to call it different things, 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 adore, the grieving process.
At age sixty-one, I sat at my computer; I began to craft, and I started to recover. I started off writing a novel minus the full comprehension of what I was getting into. I didn’t stop to bear in mind 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 clearly very little time-line for when I needed to finish; and no one could stipulate to me when it could be finished. It required a long time; not just a day, not a month, not just one year, but two full years.
With the exception of the initial 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 know exactly what I was writing, except my better half.
The more I wrote, the more I want to to create. Writing gave me an avenue to cry, to laugh, and have an adventure. Unknowingly, I had my very own support group with the characters within my story. For me, it was a safe place to share my inner thoughts and work through my suffering. I also found the best way for me to commemorate those I loved.
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