Over the summer I wrote a few blog posts giving an overview of what the process is like, at least for me, when it comes to writing a book. In the spirit of continuing that theme, I have some more to say tonight.
It's crunch time now. In a good way.
There really isn't any bad news here, but there are some challenges on the horizon. Basically for the rest of October, any time I have that isn't used up by school will be dedicated to working on revisions for the manuscript I wrote this summer. I took the first month of the school year off from even thinking about it, then started working on edits over the past couple of weeks.
I spoke with Carrie recently to get her take on the new manuscript. Long story short, we're now looking at a time window within a few days of Halloween as a target to get the new manuscript out for submission. Why Halloween? Maybe it will clear that up if I reveal the current title -- "The Living Side of Dead." Who knows if that title will end up sticking, but that's what we're going with for now. It's very much a ghost story, and shows the influence of many scary sources.
Revising is a lot of work. Our plan is to take it on in parts and keep the momentum moving consistently forward: me working on the changes we discussed as she provides feedback and going back and forth until it's nailed down, then moving onto the next issue, and the next, and so on.
The whole thing is head-spinning right now, to think that an idea I had just over six months ago could be a manuscript on submission in a matter of weeks. It's not going to be easy, but I know I can meet that approximate deadline. I know if I decide to do the work, I can get there. I'm thrilled I have the chance to do this and it's very important to me to justify the confidence Carrie has that I can pull it off.
It's pretty lonely work, though. Leaving school right away, pounding down a sandwich to keep from starving and then spending the bulk of the evening parked in front of the laptop. Of course I'll take some breaks along the way in there -- do some reading, take some walks, see a movie or two, maybe hang out with some people just to get some air. But it's isolating work, and a lot of it in a short time.
So, if anyone reading this wants to offer some support along the way, feel free. Maybe just some random bits of encouragement? Maybe thinking up an incentive to push me harder? Something or anything to keep me motivated and keep my brain firing on at least most of its cylinders? It's going to be a long rest of the month. Whatever anyone can think of to help me focus, I'll take it.
Because here's the thing. I have my own reasons for wanting to be done by the end of October, and one of them is pretty big. As some of you know, November is National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo as its known in the writing world. I've done NaNo several times over the years, though I haven't in the last two.
But this year, even after spending the summer putting together the draft of a whole new book? I have an idea brewing that I really, really want to try out. And it would be really tough to start writing one book at the same time I'd be trying to finish another.
Twenty days left in October. I'm super anxious to see how this unfolds.
And now it's time to get back to work.
Wednesday, October 11, 2017
Wednesday, October 4, 2017
A New Way to Live
My sister Erin’s death happened long enough ago that instead of being able to automatically call up how many years it’s been, I have to remind myself of the dates involved to do the math. This October 5th, the difference between 2017 and 2004 makes for thirteen years.
When you lose someone, there’s a period of time — I’d say a month, give or take a few weeks — when everything about the loss is so new with so much related activity that you don’t completely have time to process what’s happened. The visitors are almost continuous. The to-do list keeps growing. The many things that need to be taken care of serve as a kind of distraction. Eventually though, those things are resolved. The visitors are less frequent as people return to the attention their own lives demand. The items on the to-do list get checked off, while fewer new tasks are added.
The aftermath of a death isn’t something people talk much about. It’s uncomfortable, knowing that even though we’ve paused our everyday lives to help friends and loved ones deal and cope and survive the immediate shock and the abrupt redefinition of their lives, there’s only so much we can do to help.
I was in this outsider position not long ago. Very recently a friend of mine, someone I’ve known for a good number of years and have worked with, lost her son. Everything about the life her family had been leading changed overnight.
I went to see her at the visitation to try and be supportive, but felt tongue-tied and hopeless after waiting in line to see her and her husband, knowing there wasn’t anything I could say that would change what happened or make things even slightly better.
The part of the visitation that stayed with me the most was seeing her other two children there. I’ve never met them, but between the times she’s mentioned them and the dozens of pictures I’ve seen of them on Facebook, I’ve put together my own rough ideas of what they’re like: The high school daughter, wide-eyed with a graceful, glowing smile, always surrounded by friends; the middle school son, looking ready for any opportunity to charge his way through discovering and experiencing whatever he can about life; both of them with enough of a glint in their eyes to hint at the potential for low-grade mischief just beneath the surface.
When I saw each of them at the visitation, I felt like I’d been stabbed. So much of the pain and confusion I had to navigate during the time Erin was sick, and after she was gone, came surging back. I knew my friend was experiencing a pain I couldn’t relate to, but I also had a pretty good idea as to what those kids were feeling. Losing a sibling far earlier than you should reasonably expect is a singular kind of pain. Your brothers and sisters are the only true lifelong companions you get. You expect they’ll always be a part of your life, in some manner. When you lose one, it's like losing a limb — you’re off balance, and you feel as if you might not ever be whole again. You have to adapt. You have to start over. You have to find a new way to live.
When Erin died, I had no road map, no context for what I was going through, no idea what it was supposed to feel like, or what I could expect, or how I was supposed to come back from it, or even if I ever would. The whole world and my place in it was a collection of empty pages, and I had no tool to write with or any idea of what to say.
So today, for the benefit of those two kids, and to commemorate the death of my little sister — which she will always be to me even if she was thirty-three when she died — I’m going to share what I’ve learned about surviving the loss of a sibling. Erin’s biggest fear was thinking the day might come when we would forget about her. Sadly she’ll never know how wrong she was about that. If I pass on what I’ve learned about life and death to some others going through the very first stages of a similar experience, that might be another way for her memory to live on.
All right, kids. Here we go. I could write thousands upon thousands of words on this subject, and have literally written the book on it, but I’m only going to address certain points, mostly the ones I wondered about when I was at the same place you are now. Take this for what you will, and maybe it will help:
*It’s okay to be sad. Sadness isn’t bad. You won’t always feel it, but it won’t ever be far away. It’s coming from the love you have for your brother, even though he isn’t physically with you anymore to receive it.
*It’s okay to laugh and have fun and enjoy your life. Doing this isn’t being disloyal to his memory in any confusing way.
*Every new thing will hurt for awhile. Every time you have to face all of this from a different point of view, it will hurt. I promise this kind of hurting isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Those new hurts that come along are going to be a part of how you hold onto him, and keep his memory fresh and whole.
*You won’t ever completely stop hurting, but you’ll hurt less. Time really does heal. You’ll miss him and you’ll think about him every day. Thirteen years after losing my sister and I cannot think of a day she hasn’t at least crossed my mind. Most of the time when she does, I smile at the memory.
*You won’t forget what his voice sounded like. You won’t forget how he laughed.
*You could very well always have things you wonder about, all the universal “what-ifs” that might not ever be answered. When things happen later in life, you’ll have times when you’ll wonder what he would do or think or how he’d react. Those questions won’t go away, but you’ll eventually learn to be okay with knowing you won’t get satisfying answers. You’ll have enough in your memory to fill in the blanks on your own.
*As time goes on, you’ll discover that you remember some of the tiniest, most seemingly random things about him with extraordinary detail.
*Don’t be surprised if you catch yourself eventually developing some of his habits or mannerisms. My laugh gradually evolved to echo qualities of my sister’s that weren’t there before.
*When you catch up to his age and even pass it, he’ll still be the big brother.
*You’ve gone from being the three of you to the two of you. The relationship the two of you share is probably going to change. That’s what happened to me and my other sister. However you would describe the brother/sister relationship the two of you have today, it’s going to amplify into something new and stronger, because no one else on Earth will ever completely understand what you’re feeling about this the way the two of you will share.
*It’s okay to talk to him when you need to. If doing that feels awkward, go out at night and say or think what you need to while looking at the stars. Trust me, it works.
*It’s okay to be happy. It’s okay to move on. Moving on does not mean leaving him behind.
*He will always be a part of your life. I don’t mean that in a well-meaning, comforting-thoughts way. I mean the time you had with him will be a constant presence throughout your lives.
*You can still love him.
*There is a new normal waiting for you, and for your family. It might take some time to find it, but it’s out there.
*Finally, despite everything I’ve said here, I have to tell you: There is no one road map. What I went through and what you’re going through are unique experiences in many ways. There’s only the path that’s going to unfold in front of you, and the new situations that present themselves, and whatever you need to do to handle them. But that’s okay. No matter where you go or what you do in life, you are always going to carry him with you.
When you lose someone, there’s a period of time — I’d say a month, give or take a few weeks — when everything about the loss is so new with so much related activity that you don’t completely have time to process what’s happened. The visitors are almost continuous. The to-do list keeps growing. The many things that need to be taken care of serve as a kind of distraction. Eventually though, those things are resolved. The visitors are less frequent as people return to the attention their own lives demand. The items on the to-do list get checked off, while fewer new tasks are added.
The aftermath of a death isn’t something people talk much about. It’s uncomfortable, knowing that even though we’ve paused our everyday lives to help friends and loved ones deal and cope and survive the immediate shock and the abrupt redefinition of their lives, there’s only so much we can do to help.
I was in this outsider position not long ago. Very recently a friend of mine, someone I’ve known for a good number of years and have worked with, lost her son. Everything about the life her family had been leading changed overnight.
I went to see her at the visitation to try and be supportive, but felt tongue-tied and hopeless after waiting in line to see her and her husband, knowing there wasn’t anything I could say that would change what happened or make things even slightly better.
The part of the visitation that stayed with me the most was seeing her other two children there. I’ve never met them, but between the times she’s mentioned them and the dozens of pictures I’ve seen of them on Facebook, I’ve put together my own rough ideas of what they’re like: The high school daughter, wide-eyed with a graceful, glowing smile, always surrounded by friends; the middle school son, looking ready for any opportunity to charge his way through discovering and experiencing whatever he can about life; both of them with enough of a glint in their eyes to hint at the potential for low-grade mischief just beneath the surface.
When I saw each of them at the visitation, I felt like I’d been stabbed. So much of the pain and confusion I had to navigate during the time Erin was sick, and after she was gone, came surging back. I knew my friend was experiencing a pain I couldn’t relate to, but I also had a pretty good idea as to what those kids were feeling. Losing a sibling far earlier than you should reasonably expect is a singular kind of pain. Your brothers and sisters are the only true lifelong companions you get. You expect they’ll always be a part of your life, in some manner. When you lose one, it's like losing a limb — you’re off balance, and you feel as if you might not ever be whole again. You have to adapt. You have to start over. You have to find a new way to live.
When Erin died, I had no road map, no context for what I was going through, no idea what it was supposed to feel like, or what I could expect, or how I was supposed to come back from it, or even if I ever would. The whole world and my place in it was a collection of empty pages, and I had no tool to write with or any idea of what to say.
So today, for the benefit of those two kids, and to commemorate the death of my little sister — which she will always be to me even if she was thirty-three when she died — I’m going to share what I’ve learned about surviving the loss of a sibling. Erin’s biggest fear was thinking the day might come when we would forget about her. Sadly she’ll never know how wrong she was about that. If I pass on what I’ve learned about life and death to some others going through the very first stages of a similar experience, that might be another way for her memory to live on.
All right, kids. Here we go. I could write thousands upon thousands of words on this subject, and have literally written the book on it, but I’m only going to address certain points, mostly the ones I wondered about when I was at the same place you are now. Take this for what you will, and maybe it will help:
*It’s okay to be sad. Sadness isn’t bad. You won’t always feel it, but it won’t ever be far away. It’s coming from the love you have for your brother, even though he isn’t physically with you anymore to receive it.
*It’s okay to laugh and have fun and enjoy your life. Doing this isn’t being disloyal to his memory in any confusing way.
*Every new thing will hurt for awhile. Every time you have to face all of this from a different point of view, it will hurt. I promise this kind of hurting isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Those new hurts that come along are going to be a part of how you hold onto him, and keep his memory fresh and whole.
*You won’t ever completely stop hurting, but you’ll hurt less. Time really does heal. You’ll miss him and you’ll think about him every day. Thirteen years after losing my sister and I cannot think of a day she hasn’t at least crossed my mind. Most of the time when she does, I smile at the memory.
*You won’t forget what his voice sounded like. You won’t forget how he laughed.
*You could very well always have things you wonder about, all the universal “what-ifs” that might not ever be answered. When things happen later in life, you’ll have times when you’ll wonder what he would do or think or how he’d react. Those questions won’t go away, but you’ll eventually learn to be okay with knowing you won’t get satisfying answers. You’ll have enough in your memory to fill in the blanks on your own.
*As time goes on, you’ll discover that you remember some of the tiniest, most seemingly random things about him with extraordinary detail.
*Don’t be surprised if you catch yourself eventually developing some of his habits or mannerisms. My laugh gradually evolved to echo qualities of my sister’s that weren’t there before.
*When you catch up to his age and even pass it, he’ll still be the big brother.
*You’ve gone from being the three of you to the two of you. The relationship the two of you share is probably going to change. That’s what happened to me and my other sister. However you would describe the brother/sister relationship the two of you have today, it’s going to amplify into something new and stronger, because no one else on Earth will ever completely understand what you’re feeling about this the way the two of you will share.
*It’s okay to talk to him when you need to. If doing that feels awkward, go out at night and say or think what you need to while looking at the stars. Trust me, it works.
*It’s okay to be happy. It’s okay to move on. Moving on does not mean leaving him behind.
*He will always be a part of your life. I don’t mean that in a well-meaning, comforting-thoughts way. I mean the time you had with him will be a constant presence throughout your lives.
*You can still love him.
*There is a new normal waiting for you, and for your family. It might take some time to find it, but it’s out there.
*Finally, despite everything I’ve said here, I have to tell you: There is no one road map. What I went through and what you’re going through are unique experiences in many ways. There’s only the path that’s going to unfold in front of you, and the new situations that present themselves, and whatever you need to do to handle them. But that’s okay. No matter where you go or what you do in life, you are always going to carry him with you.
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