Author in Progress

 

It has been awhile since I've visited my little corner of the world here. I have been writing though. . . 90,106 words to be exact! Mid September an idea for a story was born at the cemetery of all places, while I was visiting my mom. I dutifully wrote 1,000+ words a day/three days a week until I had a complete manuscript I've named, The Cemetery Club. While it is a story about finding hope in the unlikeliest of places, it brought me hope during a difficult time. I firmly believe I sleptwalked through year one after losing my mom and brother twenty-four days apart. Simply writing twenty-four days does something to my heart. I still find it unbelieveable that I am living life without two of the largest personalities in my family. 

Year two feels more real, more raw. There is this realization that they are not coming back and getting lost in writing a fictional story helped me through the dark days. Stepping into my characters shoes and wiritng their stories gave me hope in living my own. Once upon a time, a really long time ago, I wanted to be a writer. I was even a Communications major before all the self doubt creeped in and I chose a safer option: a teacher. It is a noble profession, but not the dream I wore since childhood. I found ways to incorporate my passion for books and writing with my students, but I buried the dream I had for myself. In a world of many voices and storytellers, I let myself believe that mine wasn't good enough.

Something happened when I lost my mom and brother. All of a sudden the reality of the fragility of life was staring me in the face. Both my mom and brother lived their lives in a way that was bold and loud. They pursued their dreams. They didn't play it safe like I did. And suddenly, I craved that for my own life. I commited to myself to write the story. I am receiving coaching from a reputable, successful author.  I will be published. My mom and brother may not be here, but their untold stories will be my inspiration. In following my own childhood dream, perhaps I'll heal the parts of me that are broken as well. 

Stories are best when shared. I am grateful for the opportunity to share mine with you.

Writing: Word-less Wednesday

Words are floating around in my mind. . .about nothing, about everything.  Pouring in at warp speed, trickling in slow like molasses.  So much to say but nothing to say at all.  I'm all sorts of contradictions right now.  I remember once, a long, long time ago, my little eight-year-old self dreamed about becoming a writer.  I filled books, large and small with words.  Thoughts scribbled across pages, cursive loops and dotted T's. . .even back then I had stories to tell.

Flash forward to the year I took a writing class. . .the kind I had to mail in manuscripts and they would be returned with comments in the margins and editing galore.  Halfway through the course I realized, I didn't enjoy it.  My stories were stifled.  There was no real life to my words, and the grueling process to publish was disheartening to say the least.  So I silenced myself.  I gave myself permission to quit the one thing I thought I had always wanted to do. . .

And now, I don't care if I begin a sentence with a conjunction.  Punctuation might not follow the strict grammar rules of the academics.  More often than not, I don't even care.  The message is generally from my heart.  The happenings are from my own life; and it doesn't matter to me how it gets to paper; it just matters that it gets there.  There is something so beautiful about going through our blog books and seeing pictures accompanied by words--whatever they say, however, grammatically incorrect they are. It's my story and one that calls to be told.

Words written on paper express the details of our lives.  And our lives are so good because we are alive to live them.  I'm still here in this space. . .words are just floating around in my mind. . . .about nothing, about everything.

Our first outing in the Polaris enjoying God's creation.

On Dreams Deferred. . .

Sometimes there is so much more to life than simply writing about it. Yet I pause and really do believe in the power of the written word.  An old Chinese proverb comes to mind, "Hear and I forget.  See and I remember. Do and I understand."  When I write it out. . .it might sink in.  It might embed itself deep in the the history of my memory and sometimes I may come to realize things about myself, others, or the world.

Once, a very long time ago, I had a dream.  My dream was to be a published author.  Then my dream was to go into communications in college.  Finally, I played it safe and went into teaching.  Teaching blended the best of two worlds: content I enjoyed with kids who I loved.  But my dream vanished to the backburner of my mind.  It only resurfaced recently with my students in writing class, as a little girl shared her ambition to write a book.  I began to cheer her on and then realized I could even share my first book with her, written at about eight years old.  And as we journal back and forth, it's not the dream that has ignited something in me, but the idea of possibility that has exploded into my mind.

Stepping away from the safety of the classroom has broadened my world in every way.  It feels ripe with opportunity.  Ripe with possibility.  Ripe and ready for the picking.  What an interesting, unfamiliar concept! Playing it safe brought about stability and peace; however, this broad world view feels lo large, so grand and so full of promise!  What a feeling to hold on to, to seek, to be open to both the old and new dreams He puts upon my heart.  Now this is what I call living!