From time to time I’ll mention a short story I wrote for my cousin. He was in a tough situation and the only item left for me to give was to write. And I did. I wrote from the heart. He read the story and loved it. His mother read the story and his life was changed. She no longer enabled him to drink. Cutting him off, he became homeless.
Fast forwarding to the now, he’s employed and doing well having just hit his one year mark. He called to talk about that, life, our family. I love my cousin.
After I wrote the story, Megan, self published it for me. It’s called Don’t Be A Sally- Based on true events. I make mention of this story in my ‘About’ and haven’t a clue if any of you have read it. It’s not perfect and it’s not professionally edited.
Megan is the reason I write. She found a box in the closet. I had printed a few short stories I’d written while in College and placed them in the box, forgotten. College was a decade ago. I wasn’t sure I could write. I wasn’t sure I ever could. I wasn’t an English major. I know very little about the proper usage of anything. Oddly enough, I don’t want to know. I know that words land on the page and somehow they came from me. That’s all I want. I don’t wish to be perfect, only perfectly me.
Now these words chase me. I can’t make them stop. I can’t ignore my past and I won’t. Eventually I’ll write about that too. But, not yet. For now, I’ll finish ‘Colby and the Ravine’ a novel about a child’s innocence lost, written for adults. The ravine is the ravine I grew up in. I might as well have been a stick lying at the bottom of the ravine. I fit well there.
I didn’t mean to sit down and write this post. Now, here it is. It’s December 7th and I have to publish this post. 7 is my favorite number. It’s a number I feel thankful for.