There’s nothing hard about writing

Except for all the parts where you have to write.

“Writing is easy: All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.” -Gene Fowler

I am often asked why I am STILL writing my memoir, why am I writing it again (rewriting it again), and all I can say is, do you know how hard it is to bare your soul? To know you have something to share but desire not to hurt others in the process?

For me, writing my story has been like the five stages of grief.

Anger was first. I shared my story within moments of meeting new people, daring them to still be interested in pursuing friendship (if they were, I didn’t hold up my end, so eventually relationships ended – isolation!). I wrote all the “he did this!” and “she did that!” parts online for the world to read.

Then came denial and isolation. I pulled all my words down, claiming it wasn’t a big deal, other people had been through worse, I’m just fine, thank you very much. I quit writing and left my writing support/encouragement groups. I turned down offers to speak at schools around the country. I completely pulled into myself.

When bargaining came up, it went like this: I will never talk about my life again if I can JUST STOP WRITING IT! I will accept it and move on, never looking back, so please let me never have to answer another question. I’ll write happy stories now if I can no longer worry about having to do something with this story. Please and thank you. Or: “Why didn’t I just write it and be done with it?” “Why do I have to care about sharing this?”

The depression period for me was very woe is me, my life was so terrible, I don’t want to do anything or be anything or talk about this or mention any of it. Why did I have to go through that? Why wasn’t I loved? Just a general all-around down feeling about it all. This would be the stage that was most recent, the stage that led to actual counseling. Finally.

And now here I am at acceptance. It happened, I lived through it, I am a strong woman, a survivor, and it’s time to thrive. For me, acceptance means finally getting the book done right. The way I want to share my story – blood and guts, but also glory and grace and love.

All these stages took about 15 years. Fifteen. Years.

Sounds like forever, right? And yet, the process has had to work in its own time. When I tried to force it, it was almost too much. I have accepted what my counselor once said to me: “We’re not talking about a singular event. We’re talking about 22 YEARS. You don’t just heal overnight.” Yes, it is a long road, a journey toward healing, not just getting over something.

So. Acceptance.

And so I write.

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