Writing & Feeling
This post will be somewhat of an update on “A Voracious Grief” (it’s DONE y’all!!!!) but also an avenue for me to share some of the things I’ve been mulling over in recent months.
Here are a few stats, just to give you an idea of what’s been going on—
Word count for the month of March: 0 Stress level for March: 9,999/10
Word count for the month of April: 15k+ Stress level for April: 1/10
The whole purpose of my writing is to bring a story to a hurting person which will 1) enable that person to feel seen and understood, and 2) impart a pebble of hope which might be just enough to keep that person going. Meanwhile, in order to write compelling, empathetic stories I’m over here having a heck of a time attempting to navigate my own human emotions, probably for the first time in my life.
Here’s the backstory—I grew up thinking I was the most awful, awkward, unlikeable little girl around, unless I was playing piano or painting. Then I was pretty cool. Eventually, I grew up into an awkward young adult who needed affirmation and admiration to feel worth much. But my piano and art weren’t that impressive anymore, out in the grown-up world far away from applauding family and friends. I got married and started asking, “who am I anyway?” All the while, stuffing to one side anything gritty or uncomfortable or dislikable about myself.
Every once in awhile, I’d bring out something nasty to show my friends and see if they’d stick around despite finding out I was— *gasp * —like that! Much to my surprise, people like me. They tell me I’m a good listener, I’m kind, I’m funny and refreshing to be around, I make them feel cared for and understood. I didn’t know that about myself until they told me.
When I started writing, I had a grand idea of bringing out all that grit and grime into the light. (Be real! Be relatable! Be yourself!) And while that is a helpful exercise, it isn’t much help handing a pile of baggage to somebody in book form. That doesn’t make them feel any better. What do they do with their baggage, after all?
During the month of March, when all emotions broke loose inside me and spilled out like rainbow spaghetti all over my life and keyboard, I realized that the best way to write a book for hurting people, is to let yourself figure out your own hurt. What do you know, rewrites in April went wonderfully, and the story I’ve crafted is now something I’m incredibly proud of, something I can see has objective worth for someone who is dealing with emotional trauma and grief.
That only happened, because I went through some ugly stuff and didn’t shy away from how I felt. Now… I still have to learn what to do with all this spaghetti. It’s starting to make a mess.
But hey, there’s a darn good story coming your way later this year. And—as a side note—I’m re-labeling it after a chat with my editor. It’s going to be categorized as psychological horror now, instead of thriller. Because I dug deeper, and that’s what came out!
