Struggling With The Pain By Writing Via The Tremendous Great Sadness
Three years ago, I started composing 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 story plot for my grandchildren; and I needed something to fill an emptiness in me as a consequence of the losing my beloved mother, and another special woman during 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 experience the sadness and pain in their own individual way. My approach was penning.
Immediately after the loss of those I dearly loved, it felt just as if something was blocking my suffering and guarding me from the harshness and misery connected with death. To this day, there’s no doubt that ıt had been the Holy Spirit helping me through essentially the most trying times in my life. You many decide to call it something different, but I believe it was the Holy Spirit. Shortly after that after that, the reality of the deaths set in and I had no choice but to endure the next phase of losing someone you care about, the grieving process.
At age sixty-one, I sat at my computer; I began to write, and I began to heal. I jumped right into writing a novel without the full awareness of what I was getting into. I didn’t stop to think of the number of hours in 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 very little schedule for when I needed to finish; and no one could influence to me when it would be finished. It required a lot of time; not a day, not only a month, not one year, but two full years.
Except for the initial three pages of my book, I didn’t provide 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 exactly what I was writing, except my hubby.
The more I wrote, the more I needed to write. Writing gave me an avenue to cry, to laugh, and have an adventure. Unconsciously, I had fashioned my very own support group with the individuals in my story. For me, it was a secure setting to share my emotions and process my suffering. I also found a means for me to commemorate those I loved.
Anytime someone we love dies, we will need to grieve; there is no way to avoid it. Everyone must move through the sorrow and agony in their own way. My solution was penning.
Immediately after losing those I treasured, it felt like something was stopping my pain and keeping me from the harshness and sadness connected with death. To this day, I do believe it had been the Holy Spirit helping me through one of the most hardship during my life. You many decide upon to call it something different, but I believe it was the Holy Spirit. Soon after that, the reality of the deaths set in and I had no choice but to endure the next phase of losing someone you adore, the grieving process.
At the age of sixty-one, I sat at my computer; I began to craft, and I began to get better. I began writing a novel minus the full comprehension of what I was coming into. I didn’t stop to take into consideration 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 hardly any schedule for when I needed to finish; and no one could influence to me when it would be finished. It required a lot of time; not a day, not a month, not one year, but two full years.
Excluding the primary three pages of my book, I did not 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 know just what I was writing, except my better half.
The more I wrote, the greater I needed to write. Writing provided an avenue to cry, to laugh, and have a journey. Unknowingly, I had shaped my own, personal support group with the personalities in my story. For me, it had become a safe place to express my sentiments and process my tremendous grief. I also found the best way for me to commemorate those I loved.
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