Providing Treatment For The Pain By Writing By Way Of The Mind-Boggling Struggles
36 months ago, I started coming up with a fiction for tweens, Belle in the Slouch Hat. It's a story about a young girl who seeks 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 because of the loss of my much loved mother, and another special woman in my life. They died within two months of each other.
Any time someone we love dies, we will need to grieve; there is no way to avoid it. Everyone must move through the sorrow and heartache in their own personal way. My strategy was writing.
Just after the loss of those I treasured, it felt almost like something was stopping my hurting and safeguarding me through the harshness and unhappiness resulting from death. To this day, In my opinion ıt had been the Holy Spirit helping me through by far the most trying times in 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 care about, the grieving process.
At the age of sixty-one, I sat at my computer; I started to craft, and I began to recover. I started out writing a novel devoid of the full understanding of what I was stepping into. I didn't stop thinking about the volume 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 very little time-line for when I needed to finish; and no one could determine to me when it would be finished. It required a long time; not just a day, not a month, not just one year, but two full years.
Aside from the first three pages of my book, I didn't provide 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 find out what I was writing, except my hubby.
The more often I wrote, the greater I want to to create. Writing provided an avenue to cry, to laugh, and also have an adventure. Unknowingly, I had developed my own, personal support group with the individuals within my story. For me, it was a safe place to share my sentiments and sort out my suffering. I also found a means for me to commemorate those I loved.
Any time someone we love dies, we will need to grieve; there is no way to avoid it. Everyone must move through the sorrow and heartache in their own personal way. My strategy was writing.
Just after the loss of those I treasured, it felt almost like something was stopping my hurting and safeguarding me through the harshness and unhappiness resulting from death. To this day, In my opinion ıt had been the Holy Spirit helping me through by far the most trying times in 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 care about, the grieving process.
At the age of sixty-one, I sat at my computer; I started to craft, and I began to recover. I started out writing a novel devoid of the full understanding of what I was stepping into. I didn't stop thinking about the volume 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 very little time-line for when I needed to finish; and no one could determine to me when it would be finished. It required a long time; not just a day, not a month, not just one year, but two full years.
Aside from the first three pages of my book, I didn't provide 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 find out what I was writing, except my hubby.
The more often I wrote, the greater I want to to create. Writing provided an avenue to cry, to laugh, and also have an adventure. Unknowingly, I had developed my own, personal support group with the individuals within my story. For me, it was a safe place to share my sentiments and sort out my suffering. I also found a means for me to commemorate those I loved.
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