Several years ago, I started composing a fiction for tweens, Belle in the Slouch Hat. It is a story about a young girl who wants revenge after her brother was killed while in the Civil War. I consciously 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 one another.
Every time someone we love dies, we need to grieve; there is no way to avoid it. Everyone must experience the sadness and heartache in their own individual way. My course of action was penning.
Once losing those I treasured, it felt as though something was blocking my hurting and safeguarding me through the cruelty and misery that comes with death. To this day, In my opinion ıt had been the Holy Spirit helping me through by far the most difficult times during my life. You many choose to call it different things, 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 endure the next phase of losing someone you cherish, the grieving process.
At age sixty-one, I sat at my computer; I started to craft, and I began to mend. I started out writing a novel devoid of the full understanding of what I was getting into. I didn't stop to think of 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 seemed to be no time-line for when I needed to finish; and no one could specify to me when it would be finished. It required considerable time; not a day, not only a month, not one year, but two full years.
Aside from the primary three pages of my book, I did not come with 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 exactly what I was writing, except my better half.
The more I wrote, the more I want to to write. Writing provided an outlet to cry, to laugh, and also have an adventure. Unconsciously, I had shaped my very own support group with the personae in my story. For me, it absolutely was a safe place to express my emotions and thoughts and sort out my grief. I also found the best way for me to commemorate those I loved.
Any time someone we love dies, we need to grieve; there is no way to avoid it. Everyone must undergo the sorrow and agony in their own personal way. My avenue was writing.
Just after the loss of those I cherished, it felt almost like something was hindering my agony and preserving me from the harshness and hopelessness that comes with death. To this day, I really believe it was the Holy Spirit helping me through one of the trying times during my life. You many decide upon to call it different things, but I believe it was the Holy Spirit. Eventually after that, the reality of the deaths set in and I had no choice but to undergo the next phase of losing someone you love, the grieving process.
At age sixty-one, I sat at my computer; I began to compose, and I began to get well. I started off writing a novel minus the full knowledge of what I was stepping into. I didn't stop take into account the amount of 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 specify to me when it could be finished. It required a lot of time; not just 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 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 realize just what I was writing, except my better half.
The more often I wrote, the greater I desired to write. Writing gave me an avenue to cry, to laugh, and also have a journey. Unknowingly, I had created my own, personal support group with the characters within my story. For me, it had become a safe setting to share my feelings and sort out my tremendous grief. I also found a means for me to commemorate those I loved.
Every time someone we love dies, we need to grieve; there is no way to avoid it. Everyone must experience the sadness and heartache in their own individual way. My course of action was penning.
Once losing those I treasured, it felt as though something was blocking my hurting and safeguarding me through the cruelty and misery that comes with death. To this day, In my opinion ıt had been the Holy Spirit helping me through by far the most difficult times during my life. You many choose to call it different things, 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 endure the next phase of losing someone you cherish, the grieving process.
At age sixty-one, I sat at my computer; I started to craft, and I began to mend. I started out writing a novel devoid of the full understanding of what I was getting into. I didn't stop to think of 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 seemed to be no time-line for when I needed to finish; and no one could specify to me when it would be finished. It required considerable time; not a day, not only a month, not one year, but two full years.
Aside from the primary three pages of my book, I did not come with 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 exactly what I was writing, except my better half.
The more I wrote, the more I want to to write. Writing provided an outlet to cry, to laugh, and also have an adventure. Unconsciously, I had shaped my very own support group with the personae in my story. For me, it absolutely was a safe place to express my emotions and thoughts and sort out my grief. I also found the best way for me to commemorate those I loved.
Any time someone we love dies, we need to grieve; there is no way to avoid it. Everyone must undergo the sorrow and agony in their own personal way. My avenue was writing.
Just after the loss of those I cherished, it felt almost like something was hindering my agony and preserving me from the harshness and hopelessness that comes with death. To this day, I really believe it was the Holy Spirit helping me through one of the trying times during my life. You many decide upon to call it different things, but I believe it was the Holy Spirit. Eventually after that, the reality of the deaths set in and I had no choice but to undergo the next phase of losing someone you love, the grieving process.
At age sixty-one, I sat at my computer; I began to compose, and I began to get well. I started off writing a novel minus the full knowledge of what I was stepping into. I didn't stop take into account the amount of 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 specify to me when it could be finished. It required a lot of time; not just 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 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 realize just what I was writing, except my better half.
The more often I wrote, the greater I desired to write. Writing gave me an avenue to cry, to laugh, and also have a journey. Unknowingly, I had created my own, personal support group with the characters within my story. For me, it had become a safe setting to share my feelings and sort out my tremendous grief. I also found a means for me to commemorate those I loved.
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