Getting Past the Reality of Writing

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The reality of writing is that sometimes we put ourselves into our stories.

I recently sat down with a past story, read through it and saw more things about who I was, what I was and where my mind set was at the time I wrote it.

Whether you’re putting bits and pieces, or entire sections of your life in your story, you may not realize it until after you’ve finished it.

When I read I try not to know too much about the author, but this is sometimes problematic with my favorite authors. I know what they were going through in their lives at the time and I see that in the story when I’m reading and it can get in the way of the reading.

I haven’t finished a novel in a while. I’ve written shorts, blog articles and poetry, but I haven’t finished a story in over a year.

I believe my mind needed a break, and that now that I understand where my writing was going before, I understand how to get it better now and how to put this new journey into the writing.

The one thing I’ve realized is that I have less fear about what I write. I no longer worry about people reading what I write and wondering, “He’s crazy”, that doesn’t cross my mind as often.

When I write, I try to find something in what I’ve learned about things that make it easier to get through the day and discover new things in the writing.

Without trying to make our writing better, what’s the point?

I’ve found that having no fear, has led to discovering new characters, story ideas and ways I could have solved issues with past stories.

Getting Past Who I Thought I Was

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I’m discovering I wasn’t who I thought I was.

When we reach a certain point in our lives, we find that the person we believe ourselves to be, isn’t the one everyone else sees. This is either by accident or design.

I’ve always thought of myself as shy, reserved, but in my family life that’s not how I was.

During my time with TM, I’ve discovered I’m not the person I thought I was, I was much worse.

I believed myself to be a good husband, father and son, though quite a few times it has been the opposite.

I’d been demanding, belittling and sometimes cruel. I write this because I’m doing my best to be better in all the roles I listed above.

A few weeks after I started doing TM I had a self-realization moment.

I watched myself, how I acted towards my wife, kids and parents, and I didn’t like what I saw.

I’ve put up this facade of who I was, what my family life was like and it’s time to tear it down.

I no longer want to be the person who tells stories about his life, I want to write stories about others lives.

Growing up lies were told to me many times about many things, and I’ve found myself doing that to people I care about, not because it was planned, but because it was something I took as normal and in truth, if you love someone you don’t lie to them.

The lies I was told as a kid grew to shape who I am, and what I believed, but in shaping me they’ve allowed me to create this facade and build a wall around myself which I thought protected me from being hurt by others, which was a constant as a child.

My self-realization moment happened and I sat down with my wife, apologized for the man I’d been and promised that I would be a better man, it was a true awakening moment.

When I realized the things I was doing, I was overcome with emotion and had to think about all the things I’d done to people. It was as close as I can get to make amends for the things I’ve done in my life and the way I’ve hurt people.

That I’ve caused pain to my wife, who’s stood by me through everything and put up with my attitude and being an ass, shows how much she cares for me.

I realized that my wife is the best thing to happen to me. She’s never judged me, or anything I’ve done. She’s loved me for who I am and ignored or tolerated the person I was.

I find myself in a new place, devoid of having people who only want me around for their own means and I’m learning that I have more control of things and who I’ll be in the future than I thought possible.

I say these words often to myself, but they ring true every time. Our life is our own, how we deal with it defines who we are to ourselves and others. Who we choose to be is under our control and no one can tell us who we are but ourselves.

 

How my Wife Saved Me.

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Our life, our writing and who we are come together often. Sometimes we discover those who help us need help more than we do.

Each day I wake up, meditate, kiss my kids before they go to school and I always tell my wife I love her

The last part has many reasons, the biggest being how much she’s saved me in the 16 years we’ve been together.

When we first met, I thought she was something she wasn’t and she thought I was a kid who had a few issues.

The more we got to know each other, and when we started dating, I discovered she was as broken as I was and that together we became one whole person.

Tomorrow we celebrate our 15 year wedding anniversary and she’s done more to help me find myself than anyone who’s ever been in my life.

She’s never questioned my motives, never told me I shouldn’t follow my heart and gave me the wonderful kids we have.

She’s my editor when I need help, my confidant when I need counseling, and she always believes I can write better than what I wrote before.

I see more of myself in her every day and I since starting TM I’ve begun to understand why we’re still together and why we need each other.

She’s the best part of who I am and I’d never have the courage to write anything without her love and trust.

I see now that I’m better than I was, but I’ll always be better with her in my life than I could have been had we not met and helped each other when we needed it most.

I find comfort in her by my side and I know I’ve found the person who makes me better.

When you Stand in a NICU…

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When you stand in a NICU you try not to listen to other parents, at least that’s what I did. I tried not to make eye contact.

I knew they were there for the same reason I was, their child had been born early and though they had other obligations, they needed to be there to watch their child get better or huddle in the corner with their spouse, doctor or nurse to hear they wouldn’t be able to take their child home.

It’s been nearly five years since I stood in that room, the sound of alarms going off as a silent prayer comes from my lips, please don’t be her.

I remember the month she was in the hospital after her birth. The first few days were the worst. We were told her lungs were underdeveloped and that she may not make it.

I remember the feeling of absolute despair that day, it was the same I’d felt when my son came into the world. His little body was stronger than hers and he was out of the NICU and into the nursery in a matter of hours.

The memory of her being in the NICU is one of the strongest I have of my kids. The sound of the machines, the little tubes and wires coming from her skin, each doing something I didn’t know, I only wished for them to keep her alive so I could hold her.

When we took her home a month after her birth, she wasn’t near the weight of most infants and I worried constantly that she’d have to go back to the hospital for some reason.

She’s only been in the hospital once since then for MRSA, which scared the hell out of us, but she pulled through.

Every time I kiss her goodnight I think about that month where she was my little girl, but she wasn’t mine to take home.

When I see her face in the morning I think about the future and the things I want to protect her from and I worry I won’t be able to protect her from everything, but I’ll do my best to always be there for her as I tried to be when she was in the plastic box covered in tubes and wires.

She’s getting bigger, smarter and has a quick wit like me, but there are times I wish the world wasn’t there to change her. I like her curiosity and the way she asks about things.

I wait for the days of dates and I hope she knows I’ll walk her through the things she doesn’t understand and I’ll help her become the woman she wants to be.

When I Wanted the Story to End.

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Looking at life from a writer’s perspective, there’s a beginning, middle and end, right?

What if like some novels, we choose to end the story in the middle or not quite the end?

When we reach the point of ending the story prematurely, we discover who are friends are, who the people are that really care about us and whether our lives mean anything to someone else.

There are two times I’ve wanted to end my story, but I kept the writer guessing, wondering which way I would go.

When we keep the writer guessing, we keep life interesting, and if life is interesting, we want to discover how the story ends.

The first time I wanted to end the story, I was 13, I was bullied often and generally treated horribly.

I sat up late one night, holding a hobby knife as if it were a crucifix. I remember that night better than most. The way my sheets felt, the way I cried, and the way the story kept going.

I let the writer keep doing his thing because I wanted to see how the story would end, or at least how I would get out of the situation I was in. Things got better, I moved in with my mom and step-dad and I started a new school. I made friends, none of which I can remember, but I got through it. I let the story go on.

When I talk about these things some people believe I shouldn’t talk about how I wanted to die, not because I was selfish, but because I thought it was the best thing for my family. I believed they would be better if I weren’t there.

The second time, was more recent.

In February, I sat in my car after work, cried for 20 minutes and called my wife and told her, “I think I need to do something different.”

My work day had been horrible. I got in an argument with a co-worker. My work had been poor and didn’t really care if I made it home.

The whole drive home I hoped I would get in a wreck, I would die and my family would be better off. I believed that because my mind told me that’s what would happen.

That night, I sat at my computer, wrote a little bit and felt a little better.

I didn’t get in a wreck, or try to cause one, but I wanted to. The reason I didn’t was I wanted to see how my story ends, and I know it isn’t close to the final chapter.

I still have grandchildren I want to see. A daughter I want to see get married and a son I want to see turn into a man.

There are many parts of my story which are waiting in future chapters, the most important are still to come and I know that life isn’t done until the those two words come across the screen…The End!