It's a strange thing, this writing about one's own life. I'm writing a story that will sound oh so familiar to some, and yet not so much. It's the story of a guy who experiences tragedy then meets a gal who faces a couple of terrible situations of her own.
For those of you who are writers, don't worry ~ that wasn't my elevator pitch.
Anyway, it's based (loosely, sort of) on the early years of Dan (husband) and me. Sometimes when I look back on who we were back then, and where we were emotionally and spiritually, I have to pause. Life was really hard. Yet meeting each other was really sweet ~ and sometimes pretty tough.
I didn't start off this post with any kind of outline, or with a solid direction of where it would end up. This isn't a round-up piece, like the ones I used to write for giftware magazines and the like. It's just me thinking out loud about how odd it is to make up a story that's not completely made up.
Like the other night when I was writing a scene from the male character's POV. It's one of those reflective scenes that could easily bore a person to tears, so I knew that something had to happen. So of course, he sees
her. As I moved deeper into "the zone," the scene crystallized in my mind. I knew what he was thinking, and instinctively, what would happen next.
When I got to the part about
him seeing
her jogging toward him, and the way he described her long limbs striding, her dark hair blowing behind her, I giggled a little. Because technically, he is Dan, and she is me, and I basically wrote that I was willowy and strong. A reader might actually infer that she/I was pretty.
You see why this is so difficult?
Ours is a great story, one that's continuing to unfold. I've wanted to novelize it for years, and with Dan's prodding, I'm finally doing it. Just hope I can successfully blend fact and fiction, leave the boring parts out, and show the beauty that truly can come from ashes.
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