It’s hard to believe that just a year ago, I wasn’t blogging. No early morning trudging off to my studio to sit in the dark and write. For three decades, I lost my words. Exchanging them for teaching, farming, children, sawdust, and a guy named VST, I went to silent mode. Collecting stories to comfort my soul, I waited for a time they could explode in endless streams of vowels and consonants. For the last year, it’s been a dream fulfilled, as I watched my readership grow. Over seventy countries. Six continents. Reading me. Incredible.
Four seasons have passed. Through milestones and anniversaries, my words pulled me through widow’s fog and the darkest of winters. They pulled readers along, curious to see what stories unfolded. The writer of September 24, 2020 was a different woman than this writer today.
In the last year, I’ve had the opportunity to become the person I really am. With no one to shout “You should!”, “You shouldn’t”, or “How could you?”, I quietly became the woman I’m comfortable with. In no way a great example of a writer or anything else, but just a woman that likes herself. I’m really proud of that accomplishment, because, for many years, I lost myself. On very quiet days, a new part of me wanted to speak. My readers allowed her to have her say.
To anyone that isn’t a morning person, my schedule is insane. My eyes flip open at 4:30 AM. After a night of dreams, the stories are front loaded and ready to pop out of my fingers and onto the screen in between sips of coffee. It’s quiet. I can hear the noise of the far off interstate. Wind rustling the cotton wood trees. Cheryl standing watch, right outside the window. Oliver sleeps at my feet. It’s my time to create something for me, while recording something worth remembering.
“She stood in the light, turned a new corner, and burst all at once into bloom. The branches above her, the shadow at her feet saw her newness and gave it room to grow.” (I Am Her).
The autumn shadows are long, while he best time of year has arrived. For me, it’s fitting that my second year as a writer begins.
My muse, responsible for the beginning of my blogging journey, created a daily podcast for others. His thousands of listeners waited for his daily publication. I did, as well. Monday through Friday, his recording began in the morning, taking three to four hours. He researched and created his work of art five days a week, without fail. In other areas of his life, he wasn’t as organized. That was one place he could shine, and he did, until his light went out. One day, he put down his microphone.
I know what it feels like to have words trapped inside. Trapped words make me bitter and foul. Widows need to grieve. Words are meant to be shared. Stories are meant to be told. Writers gotta write. Women need to grow. It’s really that simple. In my quiet morning hours, I find new parts of me that want to speak.
Most of all, in my life, I’ve wanted to be a published writer. From the time I was a little girl, I knew that someday, writing would be a big part of my life. A person is never too old for their journal and pencil. At this point, it’s up to me how far I go.
With that being said, the progress of my first book, “Widow” is very slow. Not realizing the time this takes, I was very optimistic that it could have been done by September 24th. With self-publishing, there is no task-mastering agent to crack the whip. I’ll give you an update one month prior to publication. A few little detours, such a a pine loving neighbor, have complicated my days. As protective as a mother bear, I’m defending time for my words, making sure writing remains a large part of my day. Living the life I want, the future is getting brighter every day. What a journey!
Today, think about your passions. Take time to do something you love the most. Rearrange your schedule to include all the things you love. We all have 24 unrepeatable hours. How will you make yours count? More tomorrow.