My Dream, My Passion
I love books, I mean I LOVE them. What’s better than settling into bed with a good book, surrounded by fluffy pillows and snuggling with cozy covers? Never mind, forget I asked.
Then, sleep eluded me as my mind refused to shut down enough to relax. Sheep scrambled about refusing to be counted. Now, I go between the pages of my latest read and enjoy an adventure. Some nights it’s a bustling city and I’m in the heart of the action. Some nights it’s a peaceful ocean and I’m lulled to sleep by the waves crashing on the shore. Without fail, I’m transported into a world of fantasy.
Once in oblivion, dreams of writing a book take over, a goal for so many years, my passion. But, what to write? I’m clueless, was clueless. I devised a plot that provided a ladder of drama to help reach my aspiration.
Pages Provided by Pain
My work in progress is a story of a woman who suffered from people pleasing disease and a man she loved. When his life took yet another drastic downhill turn, it seemed logical to help drag him from the pit of rock bottom. She gave everything she had and more. She gave, he took, repeat. Instead of pulling him out of the trenches of despair, he sucked her into his world of hell and she got burnt. I’m talking the third-degree kind.
Putting a comical spin on ridiculous behavior was my first intention. The more I wrote, the more I understood these actions weren’t funny. Writing became therapy, a salve to coat the wounds of dysfunction. Alcoholism is not a laughing matter; it is a monster that robs the joy of everyone involved. It saps all that is good, all that is beautiful, and drains love and hope from the depths of good intentions. I have learned the alcoholic can only slay that monster when he is ready. Some are never ready.
The book is a work in progress that refuses to be rushed. The story will be told in its own time, in the order it comes. Some chapters bring a smile to my heart and are easy to write. Some are horrendous and difficult to attempt. But, it will be written.