Many times here and on blogs before, I bemoaned the loss of my (writing) voice. In truth it also involved the loss of my state of normal. Grief has enlightened me in understanding how events can so alter a person’s life, place, relationships and identity that that they lose, to a degree, who they think they are, or ever were. What events cause the grief may themselves play a part but no one really knows what it will take –until it does.
For me, it seemed, my rock or rocks were three. My children, my writing and my husband. Even though my writing was a solace, I was perplexing because my place of storytelling was ever shifting, and unfixed. I could see many sides, alternate viewpoints; the result was all over the place jumble. (Not that it ever was all that reliable to begin with, or so I thought.)
I am not sure if I have come full circle, or just hit a solid point of ground in life where my experiences are giving way to a tiny bit of wisdom.
Back to my point, as I traversed the emotional aspects, I kept considering how I could make this experience a positive one after all. Could I use this to help me be a better writer? Could this help me honestly and authentically tell a story with a character in this or that emotional state? I mean, as long as I was going through what I was going through, I wanted it to be put to good use somewhere in the future.
Looking back, it might have made me dwell longer here or there than was necessary It did add an element to the process, empathy to others, as well as characters, but like many things too much isn’t good, it can quickly become an excess. (Learning to find the right level/pace is still ongoing.)
My writing voice, that I thought was lost, has been on a journey. Not the first and surely not the last, but a journey that has refined and richened it my voice, and me.