Go ahead, shake your head. Chuckle. Roll your eyes.
I get it.
Everyone is writing a book.
This one, for me, is about healing.
It came about as a means for me to deal with a huge fight with a dear friend. Who left town before we'd resolved the issue. And basically broke my heart in the process.
The back story?
Well, I'm kind of embarrassed to admit it now, but it's about me not listening to the request of my friend, doing what I wanted to anyway, then having what he was afraid of happen actually happen, then me being very contrite and sad and remorseful and him not caring in the end and him saying 'I fucking told you so' and me crying and then him moving away.
Being the mature person that I am, I carried the pain around and let it fester for awhile. A long while, until I could no longer contain it. It demanded release.
One night, sipping a glass of wine, I sat down at my computer, opened up my word processor, and began to write.
And write and write and ....so on. For hours.
And at the end? I kind of felt marginally better.
Kind of.
So then I kept writing. For about 120 pages. In murder mystery style. In a local setting. Modern times (well, within the last decade, anyway). I admit, it's raw, but it's real. And it was where I was at the time, and I believe I could work with it to a finish, but it'll take a little encouragement I think.
My question to you is, do you want to read this? I am contemplating sharing it...piece by piece. Right here.
No, I haven't really finished the story. I'm about halfway there.
Why do I want to do this?
I think I'll feel accountable for the finish, for the closure, for the full tale told thing..if I put it out there.
The question is, do you want to read it?
I get it.
Everyone is writing a book.
This one, for me, is about healing.
It came about as a means for me to deal with a huge fight with a dear friend. Who left town before we'd resolved the issue. And basically broke my heart in the process.
The back story?
Well, I'm kind of embarrassed to admit it now, but it's about me not listening to the request of my friend, doing what I wanted to anyway, then having what he was afraid of happen actually happen, then me being very contrite and sad and remorseful and him not caring in the end and him saying 'I fucking told you so' and me crying and then him moving away.
Being the mature person that I am, I carried the pain around and let it fester for awhile. A long while, until I could no longer contain it. It demanded release.
One night, sipping a glass of wine, I sat down at my computer, opened up my word processor, and began to write.
And write and write and ....so on. For hours.
And at the end? I kind of felt marginally better.
Kind of.
So then I kept writing. For about 120 pages. In murder mystery style. In a local setting. Modern times (well, within the last decade, anyway). I admit, it's raw, but it's real. And it was where I was at the time, and I believe I could work with it to a finish, but it'll take a little encouragement I think.
My question to you is, do you want to read this? I am contemplating sharing it...piece by piece. Right here.
No, I haven't really finished the story. I'm about halfway there.
Why do I want to do this?
I think I'll feel accountable for the finish, for the closure, for the full tale told thing..if I put it out there.
The question is, do you want to read it?
Yes! I love the cathartic story turned into murder mystery idea.
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