36 months ago, I started crafting a fiction for tweens, Belle in the Slouch Hat. It is a story about a young girl who looks for revenge after her brother was killed while in the Civil War. I purposely started the tale for my grandchildren; and I needed something to fill an emptiness in me due to the losing my beloved mother, and another special woman during my life. They died within two months of one another.
Anytime someone we love dies, we need to grieve; there is no way to avoid it. Everyone must go through the sorrow and heartache in their own individual way. My plan was penning.
After losing those I dearly loved, it felt like something was barring my suffering and preserving me through the cruelty and despair most typically associated with death. To this day, I do believe it had been the Holy Spirit helping me through the single most difficult times during my life. You many decide to call it different things, but I believe it was the Holy Spirit. Ultimately 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 the age of sixty-one, I sat at my computer; I started to write, and I started to heal. I started out writing a novel without the full awareness of what I was engaging in. I didn't stop to bear in mind how many 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 was clearly hardly any schedule for when I needed to finish; and no one could determine to me when it could be finished. It required a lot of time; not a day, not 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 I was writing, except my better half.
The more I wrote, the greater I wanted to write. Writing gave me an outlet to cry, to laugh, and have a journey. Unknowingly, I had fashioned my own support group with the individuals within my story. For me, it had become a secure setting to share my emotions and thoughts and process my tremendous grief. I also found a way for me to commemorate those I loved.
Anytime someone we love dies, we need to grieve; there is no way to avoid it. Everyone must go through the sorrow and heartache in their own individual way. My plan was penning.
After losing those I dearly loved, it felt like something was barring my suffering and preserving me through the cruelty and despair most typically associated with death. To this day, I do believe it had been the Holy Spirit helping me through the single most difficult times during my life. You many decide to call it different things, but I believe it was the Holy Spirit. Ultimately 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 the age of sixty-one, I sat at my computer; I started to write, and I started to heal. I started out writing a novel without the full awareness of what I was engaging in. I didn't stop to bear in mind how many 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 was clearly hardly any schedule for when I needed to finish; and no one could determine to me when it could be finished. It required a lot of time; not a day, not 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 I was writing, except my better half.
The more I wrote, the greater I wanted to write. Writing gave me an outlet to cry, to laugh, and have a journey. Unknowingly, I had fashioned my own support group with the individuals within my story. For me, it had become a secure setting to share my emotions and thoughts and process my tremendous grief. I also found a way for me to commemorate those I loved.
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