My first great trauma in life was my parents’ divorce. In their desire to protect their children, my parents tried to keep the truth from us and show none of the despair that they were experiencing. This thrust me deep into my own mistrust and melancholy, and I began to write as a way to sort through those feelings. It was no wonder that my first two pieces, stage plays, centered on the title themes of Deception and Secrets and Lies, my clear attempt to make sense of what was happening around me and within.
Writing continues to be an opportunity for me to explore my feelings and make sense of the world. It is said that all great art stems from passion and pain, and my writing has felt no different over the years. I am a thriving writer when I am troubled in romance, finances, and family, and a lesser artist when all things are harmonious. I find great tranquility from my writing during the times when I need it most. It is a healing balm and yet a torturous master which beckons me to relive the depth of my sorrows and bleed them for the consumption of others.
I love to write, and I loathe it simultaneously. I fear the vulnerability inherent in each word that I type and crave the satisfaction of a positive review. I want everything I write to be well received yet I write for no one but myself. I feel consumed by whatever I am working on and as DaVinci noted, “art is never finished, only abandoned.” I must let it go because if I don’t it will take me over completely. I will never know if it is perfect and I will never know if I can perfect it. Writing causes me to suffer just as it eases all of my pains, and still I crawl back to it, no matter how long I stay away or go without it.
I realize this sounds dramatic, and perhaps that is by design. My writing style has evolved as I have, and with the completion of my first novel I am in the midst of a jubilant high and a terrible low. Writing Hidden By Moonlight is easily the thing I am most proud of thus far. Getting it onto to page and the process of self-publishing has taken me through the gamut of human emotions, and I would not have it any other way. I am terrified for the public to read it, and I will never forget the moment that I held the first copy in my hands and turned its pages one by one. I have known for some time what I was capable of, but could not truly understand it until I saw the fruit of my labor made manifest before me.
Eventually I will tear myself away from Hidden By Moonlight and open my heart for the next project, starting the process from the beginning. I am more ready for that than I thought I would be, and anticipating it greatly. I do not simply write. I am a writer. I may not be brilliant, legendary, or wise, but it devours me, and I am a willing feast.