July 16, 2024

Saga Of A Completed Manuscript

I’m sure most, if not all, have gotten tired of reading the phrase/sentiment “I miss my husband” in almost every one of my posts since his passing. At least, I would be if I were on the other end. But I’m also a heartless dick. If you are not exhausted with it, continue on.

On Friday I finished editing my novel. THE novel I have been editing and honing into a polished gem ever since I completed my first draft on my husband’s birthday in 2009. For those of you who can’t do some quick math, that is nearly 15 years working on this bitch. I have started and stopped countless times, either because life got in the way or I got in my way. The only credit I can lend to these individual endeavors is that whenever I would pick it back up, with all the enthusiasm of a teen girl at her fave artists concert, I would start in a new place. The logic being that maybe working on another piece wouldn’t wear me out or overwhelm me as it had before. Ultimately I would give up all over again from the aforementioned reasons.

At one point around 2012-2014 I decided that I was going to give up on being a writer. After each failure it wore away at my self-esteem to the point that this remained the only logical step. In addition it was just destroying my self-worth. Because I wasn’t hitting this high bar I set for myself, I thought that I was less than trash. To stop it, I gave up on that dream. I couldn’t get my shit together. Every time I tried, I failed.

Yet time does wonderful things for my ADHD brain. I tend to forget. Granted, I didn’t forget that I had given up on my desire to be a published author, I just decided that if I were to write it would be for me. To have fun! Which I did. I would enter the NYC Midnight contests for short stories or their flash fiction challenges. These little exercises tested my abilities and showed me that I may not be “THE BEST” I was still good. Published good? Maybe not. But I still had the talent.

For whatever reason I returned to my work in progress (WIP) a few years ago, right around when Charlie was diagnosed. I don’t remember the reason. All I know is that while on a road trip with my polycule I forced them to listen to my WIP. As my bf and I took turns reading it, I was astounded how much of it was already complete. Had I really done that much, I kept asking myself. Clearly I had. It was all there in black and white. Just a few short minutes before we got home I finished reading it to them. I felt this sense of pride. It was good. There were still inconsistencies and a couple chapters that needed a lot of work, but overall it was nearly there. I could see the finish line, however fuzzy it may have been.

When we finally got home, my husband said the one thing that, out of all of our wonderful memories of us together, this one shined the brightest. My husband looked up at me and said “Your story is really good, dear.” It came from nowhere, unprompted, and nearly knocked me off my feet. I said “Thank you” not sure if he was being nice for nice sake (he was DYING afterall…) and he reaffirmed “I mean that. You need to finish it.”

On July 12th, 2024 (12/7 the reverse of when I finished my first draft on 7/12) I finally finished editing my manuscript. I was stunned. I couldn’t believe it. I was elated and in disbelief simultaneously. I have dedicated so much of my identity into this ONE story that it was weird that it no longer existed in it’s original form. Immediately I wanted to call and tell my husband. Then… it all set in. Instead I told my BF and then my brother-husband. They were proud of me, but it didn’t fill the void I craved. So, I shared it on all my socials to lackluster response. My own high expectations ruining it of course.

To “celebrate” my achievement, I decided to leave work early and pick up my pre-orders from the Star Wars Unlimited TCG. On my way… I hit my husbands speed-dial on my car and called him. His familiar voice answered and I immediately cried. The line beeped and I barely got out “Hey punkin, I finished editing my book.” I was a mess the entire way to the store. Thank Taylor that it’s so hot, at least that gave some excuse to why my face was wet and red.

Now, I am left with the next step: writing a query letter. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

At family dinner on Sunday, I told my in-laws and they asked what was next. I told them the auto response (as shown above) and then told them my dream scenario. I said, that if I did magically get it published I would want, more than anything, a blurb on it with my husbands quote. “It’s really good, dear.”

July 9, 2024

For the sake of writing

Tonight is one of those nights where I just want to write. Whether it be a steady stream of consciousness or some haphazardly cobbled together narrative doesn’t matter. It is something I need to do. I yearn for it.

I’ve reached a point where I worry that I use my husband’s death as a way to receive sympathy. Like the people who humble brag in a self deprecating manner. Although this is neither humble nor a brag. I worry that I have begun to use it as a way to justify terrible behavior. Which is something I don’t want to make a habit.

I bring it up more than I feel I should. It’s not like I pop into Starbucks and when they ask for my order I reply “my husband just died and I’d like a black cold brew please.” Sometimes in the lack of conversation I bring it up or when prompted with how I am doing. More often than not I withhold my true feelings because it makes for a less awkward casual exchange. For those that I am familiar with, and know, I feel treat me as if I could crack at any moment. In their defense I might. I surprise even myself. But I haven’t yet. Whatever feelings I have I have buried them deep down to where they only bubble up, like crude oil, when things get tense.

Tonight… I have the image of my husband lying deceased in our bed prominent in my mind. The mental image is as fresh and real as if I was standing in the entry, staring at him resting peacefully. Unlike the times before this has caused me to feel a cut across my chest. In the actual moment this memory occurred I was calm, collected even. I was sad he was gone but… I wasn’t aching. It wasn’t painful. He passed with us around him, in his own bed, on his own terms. If given the optimal choice in passing, I think most would choose this exact scenario. Why now does it hurt?

The further I get from the last time I kissed his forehead causes me more heartache than I think I am prepared for. I miss him more and more as each day passes. Thinking of happier times waxes and wanes from joyful reminiscing to a painful desire for that which will never be again.

A friend of mine, who lost his husband to Covid, told me that almost a year, to the day, it was like a switch went off in his brain and he was no longer sad. The shared experience has been repeated a few times since and I can’t help but feel odd about it happening with me. I understand that I will always miss him, that’s a given. But I don’t want it to be a passing thought, like “oh, I need to buy milk” or “I really liked that jacket I had in junior high.”

I know my husband wouldn’t want me to be sad. He explicitly said he wanted me to live and have fun. It’s just weird without him. I don’t want to do it without him. At the very least, sharing with him what I did. How I feel.

And each day that passes I talk to new people who feel as though, in his absence, that there is place that could be filled by them. And all that does is make me angry. At both them and myself, for allowing it.

June 27, 2024

Renewed-Reinvigorated Revisions

It occurred to me the other day why, in the previous attempts to edit my novel, why I would stop at (around) the same place every time. I had assumed it was because of the monumental task of working out the logistics of one of my bigger plot twists. Yet, in one of my pursuits over the last 14 years I HAD gotten them squared. So, that was no longer a factor. Now I was just left with writing the chapters. For wanting to be a writer and loving it when I do in fact write, I certainly was terrified of that undertaking.

It is here where I thought was the crux of my problem. The resolution, obviously, being that I just needed to push forward and put thoughts to words. Simple enough, right?

This time I have done just that. In doing so, I have found myself becoming so invested in the process of writing that the time has literally slipped away from me. It’s been truly incredible. It’s as though I picked up “the writer me” I left in high school.

Feeling so energized, I have started looking to the future when it’s completed. How will I go about putting this into the world?

Here is where I discovered the true culprit of my fears rested. The fear that caused me to cease any effort into editing my manuscript.

The other night I was bored and wanted to watch some television. However there is a drought in original content so instead I scrolled over to YouTube and looked up “how to write a query letter.” Listening to these young ladies talk about the process caused me so much anxiety. I have no clue how to boil my plot down into four measly sentences. Overcome with immense dread, I stopped midway through the second tutorial.

The next day I had the hardest time committing my attention to writing. Instead I actually worked, can you imagine such a thing?! I could feel myself slipping away from my project. Like every time before.

I took the day to relax and that evening was recounting these same details to my brother (formerly brother-husband).

“I’m at the point in my book when I give up,” I had said.

In a moment of pure inspiration it dawned on me. Every prior effort, I was so enthusiastic about my progress I would start looking ahead to when it’s completed and ready to find an agent. The process of which I find absolutely daunting and truly terrifying. Like most people, I don’t handle rejection very well. And in that journey I have to remain strong in the face of potential repeated rejections until I get a yes. With that impending fear marinating in my brain, I stop myself. I stop writing entirely. Instead I resign myself to “wanting” to be a writer instead. Scratching the itch, periodically, with my online blogging.

With this crystal clear, it finally occurred to me that I need to not do that at all. (I mean… really.) At least, not while I am deep in the midst of such a monumental undertaking. Or… what has become my mantra through all things husband related “We’re not there yet.”

What bothers me is that took me so long to understand. How had I been so blind before? I guess I was weaker then, and gave in too easily to my fears.

Then the second piece of knowledge came to me: this time IS genuinely different.

After I had forced my polycule to endure my rough draft on a road trip to Salt Lake City (don’t ask), my husband told me, “Your story is really good, Dear.”

This was one of the only compliments he had ever given me. Not because he didn’t believe I was a good writer, but that this was the first time he had ever actually experienced my novel. Sure he had read everyone of my blogs, and had listened to my short story competition entries… But this had been something I had tried time and time again to do but failed because I didn’t believe in it or myself. His compliment, as small as it was in the moment, has meant so much to me now.

Whenever I begin to doubt myself I just repeat that moment in my mind. I’m once again renewed and I keep going.

When I become discouraged by the time this has taken me to edit, the years wasted, I tell myself that a lot of what is in the book now (that was never in the original draft) only came about because of my experiences over these lived experiences.

June 26, 2024

Anxiety! – Episode 2

As I mentioned in a previous post I have finally taken steps to combat my ADHD by starting a new medication. So far everything has been fine but the last two mornings I have woken up with immense anxiety. Both starting from very, very vivid dreams. Yesterday it was one about my mother at the peak of her Alzheimer’s. I woke up having (what I imagine was) an intense panic attack from this feeling of “impending doom.” The only way I could calm myself down was to reassure myself, in my husband’s voice, that everything was going to be okay. Luckily it worked.

This morning I woke up again with anxiety. This time as a swirling ball of acid in my gut. Again after a very, very vivid dream. This one was about my cousin whom I no longer speak to. We had once been close, I thought, but when I understood that was all fake I just cut her off.

I am sure I do this too frequently, (maybe it’s the Scorpio in me) but it’s something I just have to do. Ultimately I have boiled it down to: I have too high of expectations on what I think family means. So, for mine and their own sanities I’d rather just remove myself from the situation entirely.

It’s drastic but… I’d rather be alone, than hold expectations that will inevitably leave me disappointed.

My husband and I were once very close to this cousin. I do very much love her and wish her the best but… she’s a liar. She may not think so (and possibly she isn’t), but for me she kept secrets and made excuses to cover up things. When I realized what was going on, I cut her off.

It started off with her being a secret Republican. (A trump voting Republican I should add. Vom.) She would complain about living California. It’s “too expensive” she said. Yeah! You live in the Bay Area. The fuck did you think it would cost in the most desirable area imaginable? So she said they wanted to move to Oregon or Arizona. At the time I took it for face value, but have since realized that these are code for “we want a red state.”

The second clue was whenever my husband and I would visit them, her husband would just disappear. I never understood that. I often wondered if he didn’t like us, it wasn’t that. It was to avoid talking politics because he, clearly, is a Republican. And so is she. I even remember making a remark about Trump in the early-early days of him running and she grabbed his hand and made eye contact as if to say “don’t say anything.”

Now there was nothing wrong with that at one time. Other than they’re voting against their best interest (and most Republican policy directly targets and hurts my community) but whatever.

Inevitably I ended our relationship because of the obvious lying. Once I finally put the pieces together that is.

It has since given me the weirdest PTSD where now I am sincerely and deeply paranoid that every close family member or friend is a secret Republican. If she could lie to my face and excuse things away for her husband and friends with lies, then why wouldn’t others? So, I genuinely start to panic that the people I love are and I cannot deal with that. She and most reds won’t understand that concept.

What ultimately pulled the trigger for ending the relationship was when she didn’t go to my mom’s funeral. She told me that they “weren’t going to be able to make it” (day of I might add) and then her mom swooped in with some bs about her being sick. And maybe that was the case but why not tell me that? Why get your mom in on this?

I’m probably making the wrong move but… The PTSD it gave me is sincerely real. I know how ridiculous that sounds but… it genuinely causes me distress. All because of her lying to me and the lengths she would take to do it! I will continue to stand my ground. (Oh the irony.) Ultimately, we have nothing in common other than that we share DNA.