Writing a book? Really?

Ever since I was a youngster I've wanted to be a published author. In my teen years I wrote a few poems and read them to friends, and every now and again I had the opportunity to read a poem or two at church. I've written articles that were printed in local newsletters and small magazines, but to have a work that had my name on the front cover? Now that's a writer's dream! I didn't start this project with the intent to write a book. I started out journaling. And even the word "journaling" mightn't be correct. Actually, I was writing as a release. I find that while others take long walks, drive, scream, cry, clean or use punching bags for release, I like to "download".  Not that I don't scream, cry or have other releases (I will admit, my house gets its deepest cleaning when I'm upset), but when I have something on my heart and talking about it doesn't cut the mustard, I find that writing is a soothing release. Funny thing is, I usually toss my download writings aside and later throw them out completely. But five years ago for reasons - clear to me now - I kept my writings from the evening when I began my intense journey with grief. I added to them as I felt the need, and before long I had the makings of a chapter. Everything was rough and unedited, but I saw a book peering through it all. I knew NOTHING about publishing, but I had friends who had been published, so I figured I need not concern myself with the minors.

But what about the MAJORS? At one point the whole idea was starting to feel like one big major uh-oh! It wasn't my intent or aim for this book to be simply about my grief. It was also about my mother. Writing about her wasn't easy for several reasons. First of all,  I didn't know where to start.  I wasn't sure if I should talk about who I am or who she was or both. I think I had a fairly good grip on me, but I only lived with my mother for the first twelve years of my life. So the thought running around in my brain was that I didn't have enough insights on who she was. I wasn't prepared to approach the book with a lifetime of "this is who my mother was" stories and antidotes. After all, what did the twelve year old me really know about her mother?   

Another problem I faced was, What sort of book was this going to be? I had no desire to write a book on the subject of death and dying. I certainly wasn't looking to regurgitate the hundreds of books on store shelves by writing a biography and instructing the readers on the details and woes of grief. 

I won't make this a long list of difficulties and challenges. When it comes right down to it,  the decision to write a book about my journey though grief was made after much thought and prayer.  It wasn't something that came over-night. I made a decision to write, so that's what I set out to do.  I knew I wanted to give the readers my perspective as well as the perspective of other women. Because my experiences come from a woman's point of view, I decided to target other women and give them the opportunity to consider their mothers as well.  Furthermore, not having enough insights about my mother became a non-issue. I simply wrote about what I knew, and as it turned out, it was enough.