We all have stories to tell. Small, silly, surprising, large, sad. Sometimes we write the encounters in our journals. There are nights we unleash onto the pages to help us understand what transpired during the day. We include our emotions, our sorrow, and our joy. We write to help us handle the bumps in life. We write to gain insight into this world and our reactions to what occurs.
We tell our stories to one another. What are we saying as we say our words? Hear me. Acknowledge my situation. Listen. Once we've shared our stories, we often feel we've been heard and acknowledged. The story is out and no longer just living in our heads. Of course, there are times when we feel no better after having shared. The person or people did not hear us as we needed to be heard. There are times instead of being understood, we feel we have been misunderstood.
The big story (for me) that I wanted to tell was about my son Daniel. When I knew I not only wanted, but needed to write a book-length story about him, I set about doing that. Ever since his death, I'd written in journals, and then I wrote numerous articles and poems. Many of these were published in magazines. They didn't tell the whole story of what happened to Daniel and our family after his death. I needed to tell more.
As the pieces of Daniel's story came to me, I wrote them. For twenty-six years I wrote, trying new angles. I had files and files of various manuscripts but couldn't figure out the best way to present the story.
"Unfinished projects take up a lot of space in our heads and hearts, particularly when it's something we feel 'called' to do and it defies logical sense," writes Louisa Deasey, author of
A Letter From Paris.
During a visit to Daniel's Place (what my children named the cemetery), the premise for my book became evident. Finding solace at the cemetery was what had emerged over the years. The first time I saw my son's grave marker I hated the grassy resting place, I despised what had happened to our family. I felt shame, guilt, and despair. As time progressed, the cemetery became a family outing, a place to lift helium balloons, and a haven for spiritual growth. Why had it taken so long to realize this was the angle to use to construct my story? I wrote, hired two editors, and decided to publish on my own. At last, when my memoir,
Life at Daniel's Place, was completed, I felt at peace. After years of hoping to get the story out, now it was out!
Not all stories need to be put into book form. But if you harbor this desire to thread your story together and publish it, don't give up!
