36 months ago, I started coming up with a fiction for tweens, Belle in the Slouch Hat. It’s a story about a young girl who seeks revenge after her brother was killed during the Civil War. I consciously started the story for my grandchildren; and I needed something to fill an emptiness in me as a consequence of the loss of my much loved mother, and another special woman in my life. They died within two months of one another.

Whenever someone we love dies, we have to grieve; there is no way to avoid it. Everyone must move through the sorrow and pain in their own individual way. My avenue was penning.

Immediately after losing those I treasured, it felt as if something was blocking my suffering and protecting me from the cruelty and gloominess connected with death. To this day, I do believe it had been the Holy Spirit helping me through just about the most hardship during my life. You many choose to call it something different, 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 sixy-one, I sat at my computer; I started to compose, and I began to mend. I jumped right into writing a novel devoid of the full knowledge of what I was engaging in. I didn’t stop to take into account the volume of hours 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 very little schedule for when I needed to finish; and no one could stipulate to me when it would be finished. It required lots of time; not just a day, not only a month, not one year, but two full years.

Aside from the very first three pages of my book, I did not produce 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 know just what I was writing, except my husband.

The more often I wrote, the more I wanted to create. Writing gave me an outlet to cry, to laugh, and have an adventure. Unknowingly, I had developed my own support group with the characters within my story. For me, it had become a safe place to share my thinkings and sort out my grief. I also found a way for me to commenorate those I loved.

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