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Working With Despair By Writing Through To The Pain
By OnTopic | August 28, 2010
Three years ago, I started crafting a fiction for tweens, Belle in the Slouch Hat. It’s a story about a young girl who wants revenge after her brother was killed during the Civil War. I purposely started the storyline 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 each other.
In the event that someone we love dies, we will need to grieve; there is no way to avoid it. Everyone must go through the sadness and heartache in their own way. My plan was writing.
After losing those I adored, it felt as if something was hindering my hurting and keeping me through the harshness and gloominess associated with death. To this day, there’s no doubt that it had been the Holy Spirit helping me through just about the most trying times in my life. You many decide to call it something else, 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 cherish, the grieving process.
At age sixy-one, I sat at my computer; I started to compose, and I started to recover. I jumped right into writing a novel but without the full knowledge of what I was engaging in. I didn’t stop to think of 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 was clearly hardly any schedule for when I needed to finish; and no one could stipulate to me when it could be finished. It required lots of time; not a day, not only a month, not one year, but two full years.
Except for the primary three pages of my book, I didn’t come with 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 realize what exactly I was writing, except my husband.
The more often I wrote, the greater I desired to write. Writing gave me an outlet to cry, to laugh, and have an adventure. Unknowingly, I had my own, personal support group with the characters inside my story. For me, it had become a safe setting to share my ideas and sort out my saddness. I also found a way for me to commenorate those I loved.
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