If you’ve been following my blog lately, you know that I have made a choice to live boldly, to take chances that I once would not have because I was too scared or lacked the confidence in myself. While there are several things I want to try in my quest for self discovery, the one thing that I keep coming back to is this art, writing. I never really gave it much credit, if I am totally honest with myself and you, at being a form of art, or creating anything worthwhile. It started as a collection of my thoughts one day when I stepped on the scale, finally facing the reality of the situation that I was obese. I started to write, journaling my thoughts, my self disgust, and often, my self loathing, opening myself up to those who would take the time to read it, and some did, encouraging me when I needed it most, even if I did not really want it.
Then one day early this year, my world was tipped, my foundation crumbly as my family and I faced an evil with no face, an evil that manifested itself quickly in the form of breast cancer and robbing my mother of her life, robbing my father of his everything of more than fifty years. An evil that took a daughter from her mother, and a mother from her son and daughter. An evil that robbed four grandchildren of one of their grandmothers. Yes, I am still mad at this faceless bastard, but if I allow this anger to consume me, then it continues to win.
I made a decision to leave a job full of people I respect because that job was like another cancer in my life, it had robbed me of the joy and satisfaction that I once had when I would walk in, smiling because I knew I could make a difference; but in the end, I was the one who was different, and it was not fair to the people I saw everyday, the ones who I loved, but a piece of the puzzle was now missing.
Back to the opening paragraph and living boldly. I’m writing a book, I’ve no idea if it’ll be good, or bad, that’ll be up to my readers. One thing that I am discovering while I write the characters stories is they are all me, or pieces of me. The character I relate most closely to is the heroine, her story seems to parallel mine in so many ways. Her hero is me in that he watches things, he’s very observant before he acts, but unlike me, he takes no BS. But the antagonist… I thought I knew who his character was, and he had nothing to do with me; how could I have any of that dark inside of me?
Today while writing a scene that was specifically his, there were those elements of me popping out, a deep anger rooted in his past that he’s not revealed to me yet, but the anger it turned out of me was at the faceless bastard that is cancer. Both of them have ruined someone, leaving pieces behind for others to pick up.
Like I said, I have no idea if my story will be good or bad, but it is one that I have to put down and tell, a way of purging myself. A way of learning to live boldly, setting an example for myself and my children, and a way to, I hope, make my Mother proud as she watches down on me.