Recently my husband was diagnosed with not one, but two, debilitating illnesses. It put me in quite a tailspin. I got depressed. I got angry.
And I wrote like I’ve never written before.
True, I did only a minimum on my current project. After all, a writer has to stay immersed in their story or it’ll stall. But I did tons of journaling.
And poetry. It doesn’t matter to me that none of it came out good. What matters is that it’s there. That I WROTE my pain and frustration.
At times I wrote so hard, so angry, my pen tore the paper.
And I’m still writing.
Someday, I’ll be able to look back and analyze what I’ve written. Maybe even use the raw passion captured in a story. Rework the poetry.
Because I’m a writer, I write.