2 years ago on Christmas Eve, our home was burgled while we were with family. One of the many things they stole was my laptop, with all of my storylines. #Lossofhope
I’m a romance/dramatic fiction novelist who writes when the mood strikes. So hearing well-meaning friends and family tell me, “oh, it’s all there in your head. You can just write it back down again!” made me feel bitter. I knew I could never get the same stories back, certainly not with the same emotion. Having those stories stolen crushed me. Absolutely. Effing. CRUSHED me.
But I did my best to move on. I’d gotten into therapy for grief counseling as I’d lost my grandmother that November. It was a bit serendipitous that I found my therapist shortly before this happened; I couldn’t cope with it because I couldn’t write, and she helped me through some dark days.
I even stopped reading because seeing the words on the page was just too much.
But I’ve been in a particularly low spot lately with much of my prior coping mechanisms no longer working. This time of the year is just tough. We live so far from family, we’ve lost so much around the time of the year, I just want it to be DONE so the pain can recede once again into the back of my mind. It HURTS!!
I wracked my brain for a healthy coping mechanism...and remembered the joy I always found in a good book. I bought a handful and read this past weekend. It was nice. It didn’t solve anything, but being able to put aside the tension I feel for those hours I was engrossed helped. A LOT.
And then today...I started writing. One of the stories that was lost “for good” came back to me. I don’t remember all the characters’ names or the exact storyline, so naturally it’s different, and it still hurts to know that the original is gone forever.
Even so...writing it down, getting into the emotions of the characters, feeling my muse flow through me into the pen and onto the paper again was absolute and total joy.
And it hurts like crazy.
And it feels amazing.
It makes me feel heartbreakingly hopeful.