In 3 months I celebrate the 3rd year anniversary of the publish of my first novel, Call me J. A roman a clef. It just happens that I am 60+.
I never set out to write a book, never mind a series with well over 1,000,000 words. It was supposed to be a small family chronicle–maybe 20 pages. First book alone has 724.
But–I had a heart attack, you see.
Part of the rehab was counselling.
Part of the counselling was facing the truth of our own morality.
Part of what they said was “Now is the time to finish unfinished business.”
I did not want to go to MY death without telling my mother’s story of her beautiful life and HER untimely and violent death.
It was her due. I had to honour this most precious soul.
We ALL have a mother or we would not be here and honouring that mother is –well-you reading this article know what I mean.
The 4 years it took to complete this challenge of finishing what I started were the scariest but most magnificent span of time in my LIFE. Exhausting, Exhilarating, Encompassing. Evoking.
I cried sooo many tears. Over and over as I edited and honed those horrible words to get it perfect. For her.
A part of a circle.
THIS was OUR story..
And it deserved to be told.
For it was, in the end, everywoman’s story…