I am so sick of writing crap. I mean, every novel that I have almost finished is boring and nothing new. I bring nothing important to the literary table.


Well, that is until now.


I have decided that it is time for me to walk down that road. No, not that one…the other one.


I am making up my mind and putting my life down in black and white. Sure, I will change things and make things how I would have wanted them. But the same basic plot line will be there.


It’s rough though. Walking down that road…it’s dark and I don’t know if I have enough distance yet.


 What is going to happen when my life gets torn apart by everyone? Can I really let everyone judge me like that?


But everything else I write is crap. Maybe this is the one thing I have to write. Maybe those other novels were to teach me that I could sustain a novel. Now I just need to write mine.


I will never make everyone happy. I have to go into this knowing that and really understanding that.


This is my life and I must write it. Once I get it all out, then I can go in and start adding and subtracting.


I always thought my life was rough because I was to do something more with it. What greater gift is there then comforting someone else through my own words.


But this is really hard. I am only on page two and my face hurts from crying. I keep listening to “Ave Maria” which isn’t helping the tear factor.


Just indulge me.


Why God? I was seventeen! I already gave one…why did I have to give twice and in such a small amount of time? It wasn’t even a decade that passed before you were calling the next in line.




In writing it, I keep going back to that one scene. She was sitting up and I had hope. She wasn’t really dying. It was a mistake. I misunderstood. But I didn’t.

You let her die. You let her die.


You took her from me.


You took her from my sister.




You let her die and you let me die, too.