I wrote something yesterday. Only 750 words or so, but it wasn’t an email message or a note to my sleeping teenage son saying I’d taken the dog for a walk so if he woke, get his own breakfast. It took me about twenty minutes to write the first sentence, but after that the words flowed more quickly, even if I was too tired by 10 p.m. to keep writing.
These last months have held little more for me and my kids than coping. I cry. I drag. I worry about the boys. I grocery shop only when absolutely required. We eat out when I have no energy or motivation, which is quite a lot. I walk the dog, walk the dog, walk the dog. I wonder if I should even bother to write any more. I wonder if I should go back to school and become a kindergarten teacher.
But yesterday I wrote. And today I read some reviews on my newest novel, The Weaver’s Light, and I felt a little hope again. Not a lot. No flash of brilliant, effervescent optimism or expectation, but a spark in the dark that at least I could pull another story together for the kids. Something they would like. Something that would make them laugh. We’ll see if I can nurture that spark into even a small flame that will stay lit until the heavy darkness of grief grows a little lighter.
Here’s the first sentence from what I’m calling Shanti and the Thieves (though I don’t know yet if there will be thieves in the story; who knows until I write it?).