Every morning, after rising and making coffee, I sit on my
couch with a 6" x 8" spiral notebook and a Pilot Razor Point Extra
Fine pen. For at least a half hour, I record a diary of what I did the day
before, dreams and nightmares, wounds and applause, plus tasks due that day. As
of this writing, I'm up to page 10,380.
While that
number may sound impressive, it doesn't travel far enough back. I wish the innocent
little girl I once was would've grabbed pen and paper as soon as she learned to
print. If I had started then, writing my memoir, "The Division Street Princess,"
might have required less tunneling. To fill in, I had to rely on microfiche
pages of Chicago newspapers, tales told by relatives, memories that had been bolted
to my brain, and my imagination.
For my
second book, a slight e-novel called "She's Not The Type," I had some journal pages, but not the guts. The first
half of that book is a roman e clef, somewhat based on my first marriage -- our
secret romance, wedding, birth and upbringing of two daughters, and our
eventual somber divorce after 30 years. The second half is pure fiction -- a wistful
dream where the protagonist becomes a journalist and her mother, rather than
dying young while in a pathetic second marriage, moves to Hawaii and finds true
love.
In this
current period of my life, with my morning journaling as sacred as a religious
rite, I also read a page taken from past years. I do this because I want to
learn my patterns -- worries that never came to pass, prophetic musings, and
other buried gold.
Recently,
I've been in 2012, reliving my husband Tommy's last weeks. Although my heart
beats as I read about the emergency room visit when he became dehydrated, the
astonishing discovery that it was throat cancer rather than dementia blocking
his ability to swallow, ten harrowing days at Northwestern Memorial Hospital,
and twelve
at home in hospice, the most surprising take-away was my eerie calm.
When I
discussed this odd composure with others who had experienced similar journeys, one
friend said, "You did what you had to do." I'll accept that, but I
have another theory: Because of my daily journaling and the The Rookie Caregiver blog I was
writing at the time, I had been able to release most of the shadows, fear, and grief.
Remarkably,
on the entry I wrote November 4, 2012, just two days after Tommy died, I wrote:
Plan to start post for TRC about his
death. Then, keep up until I have enough pages for a book. After that, get a
fee for editing and self-publishing, do a cloud fundraising, and try to get book
completed by May 2013. Goal.
I'm a year
late, but thanks to 112 backers on a Kickstarter campaign, it is happening. She Writes Press will publish "Green Nails and Other Acts of Rebellion: Life After Loss" September 2014.
It turns
out it's not only starry-eyed goals that plump my journals, but other musings
that bear repeating. On November 9, 2012, one week after Tommy's death, I
wrote: Bank turned me down for a Home
Equity Line of Credit, not enough income. Not surprised. Think I will
eventually sell as house is way too big for one person & do I want hassle
of roommates or borders? May be better for me to rent new apt. that can make my
life easier and not have to depend on others. All options open.
Those words turned into several
posts on The Rookie
Widow - a prophecy that took less time to accomplish than my third
book. In a little over five months, I was settled into my new River North
apartment.
Because I'm
tech savvy, it's surprising I've resisted typing my daily words into a computer.
But for me, there's something about pen and paper that better stirs my brain
and soul. I'm grateful to journaling for
buffing my writing voice, while also serving as memory chip, repository, therapist,
best friend, cheerleader, and crystal ball. And coupled with that first cup of
coffee in the morning -- for this writer, it has been the most nourishing way
to start a new day.
