My New Project

I never really knew what would be the result of my attempts to write. It all started with the idea of writing a book about how I met my dad. I didn't really know if I could write or what I should write. But I did it anyway. My initial 20 or 30 thousand words were deleted and I started over again. My second 20 or 30 thousand words were also deleted and I started over for a third time. That time, most of the words  seemed to stick. I literally lost count of how many edits and tweaks and moving this paragraph to that spot and deleting that paragraph in favour of another one took place. Nor could I estimate how many times I read and re-read the entire thing from the day of inception to it's final chapter.

Writing a book is a fluid - dare I say - living - creation until the very last period has been placed. When I declared within myself that it was done I gathered the courage to hand over, not just my blood, sweat and tears (well - I think there was a minimum of blood, but the copious amount of tears made up for that lack) but a piece of my heart and soul to several people to read and edit. I knew what was on the page, but how did it read to people who were not intimately involved in the story? Did it make sense? Was it too much this or not enough that? Were there repetitive parts or unclear portions? Did it convey too much 'poor me' and not enough joy (I'm always concerned with that equation in everything I write). Did I treat everyone as respectfully as possible while still telling the truth of it all? So many things you worry about. Of course, I could not have picked two better editors for this project because both of them were interested in the integrity of what I wrote. But they were, I found, also invested in me. They saw my heart on the page and responded to it with such compassion and love.Their encouragement could not have been more important to me. 

When the book was finalized, it happened that self-publishing was not an option. Nevertheless, I felt my story should be out there to be read, not gathering dust. So I tweaked it again and launched it as a blog. Chapter by chapter. I was terrified. Everyone was going to read those words that described the reality of what it meant to grow up without a father, how it felt to finally meet him, and what, in that whole experience, transformed me. I had no idea what the reaction to my story was going to be. I worried that people would think I was trying to garner sympathy or would tire of the emotion. Or that some people would not be able to handle the honesty or would lose interest. Most of all, I was deeply fearful of being judged or misunderstood. And all I can say is that all of you were so supportive. The reaction was more than I could have hoped for and my fear turned to gratefulness for everyone's gracious acceptance of it. And not only were people gracious in hearing my story, but were so encouraging about how I chose to write it. 

You might be surprised to hear that by the time I was nearing the last few chapters I just wanted it to be over. I had lived and breathed this story, over and over again, since the first moment my fingers hit the keyboard back in September of 2014. I posted the last chapter on February 2, 2018. It had been a long, long process. The minute I hit publish I felt this relief flood my body. It was done! However, it was immediately overtaken with an unexpected emotion. I felt bereft. Empty. What do I do now? Will I ever write anything again? If so, what? The woman who has helped me put some of my life pieces back together said I should write a book about my marriage one day. I said no. I couldn't. She suggested poetry instead and I liked that idea but because poetry can be the rawest in-your-face, pain-to-prose you'll ever read I didn't know if I had the courage to ever share it. A friend of mine is a poet. And sometimes when I read her poems I have to look away from the words on the page. I can't bear it. What's within those few words are  so vivid I can't take the pain. Nor can I dare to enter into the yearning. She not only publishes her poems on social media but she's published them in a real everyone-can-buy-one book. I'm so proud of her. Not just for the creation, but for the bravery it took to write each and every word then share them with the world. 

I still had this blog for my random thoughts (which, as you know by now, can be pretty arbitrary). But the poetry seemed a natural fit - partly because I was already doing it on the side - but because I felt this medium might be a way to release what I could not tell. So. I found myself a new journal. You know - to write all the poetry. And...tick tock, tick-tock. Crickets. Yeah - I got nothin'. Give it time, I thought. You DO need to be in the right frame of mind to write. And the muse - a thought - a feeling - even a whim - has to present itself. And when it does you usually have no choice but to write about it. So - when those words come, when they are willing to be expressed, I will be ready. 

And it was in the midst of this waiting that something came out of left field.   

An old friend of mine, another woman who is a writer and most recently, a burgeoning stand-up comic, (She is frickin' fearless. Or crazy. Both. She's both.) is also a facilitator of grief seminars. She messaged me after one of her seminars and said several women had approached her to say they were mourning the loss of living children. And grandchildren. 

"One asked if there are any books on that. Ahem. Just sayin'." she said. 

I laughed out loud and had two thoughts crash into each other at that moment. "No way!" and "Absolutely!" "No way!" immediately fell to the floor and melted into the woodwork.  "Absolutely!" took off like a runaway train. I was literally writing 5 minutes later. 

I will tell you why this resonated so big with me.

You see, unbeknownst to everyone in my life at that moment - particularly my grief-facilitating-stand-up-comedian friend - was she approached me at a time when I was knee-deep in my own grief. There is a loss in my life that has shattered my heart.  And I grieve the living every single day. Even though time passes, and things "get better" (whatever that means) - it never, EVER goes away. And when I least expect it, something will trigger that grief. Then another thing. And another. And well...yes...I suddenly find myself knee deep once again. 

When God wants to let me know something definitive He knows how to knit the circumstances together so intricately I can't help but know He's all over this. He knows I'm skeptical and fearful and will follow with a list of reasons why this idea is not a good thing. But I felt Him say,

"Tell this story too."

So yes - this very verbose post is to let you know, I'm embarking on another project. Wish me well. Don't ask me how it's going. Only because the initial 20 or 30 thousand words could be deleted at any time only to be replaced by another 20 or 30 thousand. And this will be a living, breathing creation telling a living, breathing story. This will be a lot of blood, sweat and tears (and again, I expect hardly any blood will flow that isn't directly related to paper cuts, but tears of all varieties will likely be spilled on this one too). This will also be a journey. Because writing isn't just about telling, it's about discovering. There is something inexplicable that happens once you release your story to a page. It leaves room for Life to enter that space - that previously held pain or loss or sadness - and shower you with amazing insights and healing and perspectives that you never knew existed. 

I'm excited to tell this story. Not because it's a they-lived-happily-ever-after story. But because there can be no grief if there was no love. There can be no sadness if there was no joy. And there has been deep, deep love and great, great joy. I get to share that with you. 

Photo Credit: iStock_book_typewriter_writing.jpg