Writing
Before Dawn
March
13, 2018
Years
ago, my daughter gave me a book, Writing Past Dark. A
book where the first chapter had been a magazine article and maybe
should have been left at that. The author promoted the idea of
getting beyond depression and writer's block. The first chapter
offered the most insight and help. The rest of the chapters mostly
felt fluff.
I
feel this winter cloaked me in darkness, after so much promise in
December. My novels sales were the best and I thought that might
continue. I wrote more. I found a group that I thought would help
keep me motivated. I even wrote a few days on one unfinished novel
anywhere from two hundred to a thousand words a day.
I
also felt a push for physical activity, with one night pursuing the
elephant dance and stumble with my ballet DVD. But I was moving. I walked the dog
around a few blocks, a dim shadow of our usual outings, but it was a
walk. One evening I pulled some muscle in my chest wall or was it my
ribs? That slowed me down, but not like what happened next.
The
worst was January tenth, I wrecked my new car. No one was hurt, but I
at first sat stunned with the air bag filling the space in front of
me. When I got home, I sat on the couch, not moving at all. After
two hours, I realized this. I felt numb, not mad or sad or glad; I
felt nothing. What could I do? And I thought all the horrible things
that could happen. And what could I do? If they happened, I had to
take it. I had to let go. Did I love my new car too much? I hadn't
even made the first payment.
But
everyone the next day seemed genuinely glad I wasn't hurt. “Cars
can be replaced.” Yes, and I thought of my dad saying that when a
deer ran into my sister's new car many years ago. And I cried that
night, missing my dad. “But girls like you, cannot be replaced.”
My loving dad.
The
work load continued to pile. I felt badly missing patient visits-
pushing them to the next day and the next, or canceling on a snow
day. I didn't even know some of them. Push, push, push every day with
more documentation at night. But I love home health and don't want to
do anything else. I consoled myself by calling it my best paying
writing job. Probably even better than free lancing.
Frigid
weather and snow takes a toll on me. I only want to sleep under a
blanket when I come home. That charting, though, hung over my head and guilted
me from doing anything. I became numb, again, with hopelessness.
Could I win this game? I didn't feel like a winner.
No
one complained. Patients wanted me to visit. Some days, I confidently
completed everything on time. My supervisor appreciated my positive
attitude.
I
didn't write on my novels. I journaled every morning. Gobs and gobs
of words poured from my pen in cramped cursive sometimes, looking
more like my mother's writing. Or I printed important words. Some
sentences show a combination. I wrote. I felt, though, I had nothing
to show. I quit writing for the site I pay to be on. To think of
writing for publication gave me a headache. Writing in my journal
proved,though, I kept writing past darkness; I kept writing before the dawn.
I
looked forward to this week. I worked my seven day stretch and spent
most of my day off finishing all the charting I tried to do in the
evening or morning. I got some done, but not nearly enough. A lot of
clicking answers. Jameson School of Nursing prepared me for OASIS, or
at least picking the best answer.
This
week, I am scheduled for jury duty. Today, as I prepared for the
first day, my Facebook memory came up that I was working on my novel,
Last Free Exit. I
wrote several of my scenes, based on my last jury duty experience.
Across
from the courthouse, sits the old county jail. Again, one of my
experiences there as a nurse caring for a prisoner, lent to my scene
in Last Free Exit. Morgan visits Iggy in jail, she feels the hollow thud in the chest when
those bars close behind you.
The
paintings on the rotunda, I used in Country,
another novel in progress. I peered at the face of the one, up on the
ceiling, and confirmed, “Yes, that is Eva.” Then, I entered the
court room to wait for our directions. My model for Mike in Last
Free Exit walked into the room.
He nodded to me and I thought is this Last Free Exit
Day?
The
trial I didn't get pick for would have been an experience for writing
about Maria. In Summer Triangle,
I didn't feel the need to have a trial for the story. They never
found the rapist. Today, I thought, maybe I need to finish that part
of the story. I think of a sequel for Last Free Exit
and Summer Triangle. To
confirm that, the stylist who did my nails today was named Amber. And
well, maybe looked a little bit like Amber.
The
best thing about today is I remembered how fun it was to always be
thinking of story and itching to write. The places, people and
phrases jumbled together to inspire. Is this the dawning I've been
praying for? Will I tumble out of my bed where I slumbered for too
long? The joy of writing come before dawn, again. I only hope it will
stay.
