3 years ago, I started authoring a fiction for tweens, Belle in the Slouch Hat. This is a story about a young girl who seeks 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 as a consequence of the loss of my precious mother, and another special woman in my life. They died within two months of each other.

Any time someone we love dies, we have to grieve; there is no way to avoid it. Everyone must endure the sadness and agony in their own way. My way was penning.

After the loss of those I cherished, it felt as if something was blocking my hurting and protecting me through the harshness and depression connected with death. To this day, In my opinion it was the Holy Spirit helping me through by far the most difficult times during my life. You many determine to call it something else, but I believe it was the Holy Spirit. Immediately after that, the reality of the deaths set in and I had no choice but to undergo the next phase of losing someone you adore, the grieving process.

At age sixty-one, I sat at my computer; I started to craft, and I began to get better. I started out writing a novel minus the full understanding of what I was engaging in. I didn’t stop take into consideration the volume 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 clearly basically no time-line for when I needed to finish; and no one could determine to me when it would be finished. It required lots of time; not a day, not only a month, not just one year, but two full years.

Apart from the initial three pages of my book, I didn’t produce 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 fully understand just what exactly I was writing, except my husband.

The more I wrote, the more I wanted to write. Writing gave me an outlet to cry, to laugh, and also have an adventure. Unconsciously, I had developed my personal support group with the characters inside my story. For me, it had become a secure setting to share my feelings and process my tremendous sadness. I also found a means for me to commemorate those I lost.

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Tags: Mental Health

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