I've gotten e-mails wondering why I haven't blogged in so long - almost a month! As you know, I'm working on a book. A novel that is based on a true story. I've told you before that it's about something that my family and I went through several years ago. It was bizarre, creepy and at times downright terrifying. For about 4 years it was like living the plot of a scary movie. We were finally given advice by a Magistrate Judge, Chief of Police and an attorney that we should just move out of the county. Finally, after being forced to be a prisoner in my own home, not being allowed to leave unless I had some kind of protection, we did just that.
Everyone - and I mean everyone who went through this with us, or knew about it, or has since heard about it has told me that I had to write a book.
I love to write! I don't know how good I am it, but it's a passion for me, so I guess I've never cared if I was good. I've written essays, articles, new stories, my own material for my show when I was on the air. Now, I'm a blogger. But I've never even attempted a book.
Before my Grandma Drexie passed away, she asked me if I was ever going to write a book. (I used to spend hours writing short stories for her in the Big Chief tablets she'd buy me).
"I don't have a plot," I'd lament. "I have absolutely nothing significant to write about. Nothing fun, nothing dramatic - nothing that would spark anyone's interest. When I can think of a good plot - that's when I'll write that book.
Years later in ways I never expected I now have that plot!
This isn't an easy book. It's not a fun book. Honestly, I hate it. I can't wait to be done. And once it's done I have a great idea for all kinds of other books that ARE fun! I promise! But not this one.
I thought writing it would be so therapeutic. But it's not. When I get to a part that is painful, and believe me there many of these, I have to put it down and walk away from it. I find myself looking for excuses to not go near my computer. The dogs have to be walked. I have to clean the kitchen. I have to bleach my hair. Clip my toenails.
Telling this story has been always so incredibly frustrating - it is impossible to explain to someone how this situation affected me and my family and how to this day it still affects me. I thought writing it down would make me feel better and give my friends and family a better understanding of how I felt during this whole chain of events. But it doesn't. I read it back to myself and it doesn't even remotely touch on what was going on inside my head and the fear I felt during those days.
I'm doing the best that I can with it, and will (hopefully) be wrapping it up soon and sending it Rita (the publisher). She has told me she is excited to get it and looking forward to it, but of course there are no promises.
So, here's what I've decided. I'll continue doing the best that I can and I will finish it. If my pubisher doesn't like it, fine. I will market it myself, and sell it online as an e-book.
Some how, some way, this story will be told. Only then will I be able to put it behind me and go on.