It was a warm and sunny early June day. I was on an interstate, travelling southbound after leaving my therapist. Her office is in a mid-state town with a northern reach that touches the White Mountains of New Hampshire. With an hour long drive, my listening choices were NPR, music, or sports. On that day music prevailed. When I listen to music privately, it means my mind likely works through an issue – or fashions a story. I’ve told stories to myself my whole life.
Story it was, until my mind side-shifted into making the story an issue. That merged private story with public blogging, opining, and business writing, mixing it up and spitting out an intriguing idea. On arrival at home, I registered a second blog (my first was a general blog on TypePad) here on WordPress that would exist exclusively for writing stories, specifically one story.
Why? Why after 53 years of life, after being deathly afraid to present book reports, to share projects with classes, or speak publicly to any group of people, after feeling like my work would never measure up, would I suddenly use the word assembly line in my mind to fashion fiction and share it with anyone who happened to wander onto my blog?
Healing. My life shattered in 2003, after an accelerated rate of deterioration. I started a long rebuilding process thereafter, coping with and working through my gender issues, as well as associated personal and legal issues. In addition to fiction writing as a means to heal, I was in therapy, and a Reiki practitioner. Something was still missing, and so I subconsciously searched for another outlet. Signs in my life pointed to words, but I’d never assembled those sign clues into an idea, not until that ride home.
That night, I wrote a short piece, badly. Yet it felt right. It had purpose, it had roots in a story that has been in my head a long time. I had this vision, and that vision was starting to appear before me.
A week later I wrote a second fiction post. By the end of June, there were 11. In July, I added something like 37 additional posts; 47 more in August. And by the beginning of the following February, there were 300 on the blog. In June, right after the one year mark, I stopped, because you cannot post to a blog from a federal prison camp, which is another story one can read about here.
While at the camp, I wrote 9 stories, and came home four months ago with 952 pages (my handwriting is extra small) of fiction that will take me years to enter and edit to form into workable stories. I have designs on publication. The first, what I thought would end as novella length, should come in at 85,000 words, putting it at novel length. I’m in the editing stage now, a refining process I will repeat several times until I believe each element of the story has purpose and interest. This will take months. Since it is my first actual try for a publishable novel, I take extra care.
Writing…is a means by which I heal. It takes me away from whatever upsets, and channels that upset into something positive, forward moving energy, while drawing on my inner creativity. And maybe, if all works well, maybe one day someone will wish to read it all.