Dealing With Saddness By Writing Through To The Pain
Three years ago, I started writing a fiction for tweens, Belle in the Slouch Hat. It’s a story about a young girl who looks for revenge after her brother was killed during the Civil War. I purposely started the tale for my grandchildren; and I needed something to fill an emptiness in me because of the losing my beloved mother, and another special woman during my life. They died within two months of each other.
Anytime someone we love dies, we have to grieve; there is no way to avoid it. Everyone must go through the sadness and agony in their own way. My option was penning.
Just after the loss of those I adored, it felt like something was hindering my hurting and preserving me through the cruelty and sadness that comes with death. To this day, I do believe it was the Holy Spirit helping me through one of the most difficult times during my life. You many determine 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 go through the next phase of losing someone you cherish, the grieving process.
At the age of sixy-one, I sat at my computer; I started to craft, and I started to get better. I started writing a novel but without the full knowledge of what I was stepping into. I didn’t stop to think about 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 seemed to be hardly any schedule for when I needed to finish; and no one could dictate to me when it might be finished. It required considerable time; not just a day, not a month, not just one year, but two full years.
Excepting the first three pages of my book, I didn’t produce 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 precisely what I was writing, except my hubby.
The more I wrote, the greater I need to to write. Writing provided an outlet to cry, to laugh, and have an adventure. Unconsciously, I had put together my own, personal support group with the personas inside my story. For me, it absolutely was a safe setting to share my emotions and thoughts and work through my suffering. I also found a way for me to commenorate those I loved.
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