Ever have someone in your life who was so jealous of your writing he hated it (and you) enough to destroy it? Sadly, I did.
Years and years ago, I had idea notebooks. One, a blue one, was for a story called Ask Luellen. It was a tale about a family as told by the youngest daughter. I had all sorts of notes. Even the first chapter though it wasn’t quite right.
As I was debating on what person to tell it in, the mean, hateful, spiteful boy who was living in my house at the time destroyed it. And yes, boy is the correct term. No matter how old he was his behavior precludes me from ever calling him a man.
Having the notebook obliterated made the characters disappear. I thought I’d lost them forever for letting that happen. I’ve hated myself for years over it. And so many other things from that time in my life.
As I was waking up this morning, in that moment between truly asleep and awareness, I heard the slightest whisper. They’ve been there all this time. Punishing me? Hiding? Sulking? Searching for someone else, someone more worthy, to tell their story? I really don’t know. But they’re still there or maybe it’s back again. It’s like finding an old, old friend you lost touch with eons ago, never expected to find again and one day they bump into you in the most unlikely of places.
Maybe it’s time to forgive myself.
Yes, I’m a bit too introspective today.