One way I’m coping with breast cancer—and the side effect of
chemo brain, which causes forgetfulness and muddy thinking—is to write.
I’ve been encouraged to journal and have received several
journals as gifts (like the one on the left) from friends, but I haven’t used them yet. I’m not
ready to record all the day-to-day events about my illness. It feels too raw.
Plus the journals are so pretty, I’m saving them for happier times.
What I am doing is writing when I have energy and the mood
strikes. Mostly I write on my laptop, but I also scribble notes in raggedy notebooks.
A short story I began in January started as a romantic
mystery to read at critique group for a Valentine’s love story challenge was
titled “Time Will Tell.” Around the same time, I was invited to submit to Mysteries of the Ozarks (Vol V), a project of the Ozarks
Writers Inc. I reworked and lengthened the story to highlight the mystery aspect, and the story was accepted just before my diagnosis. A few weeks later, I was asked to
help with editing and proofreading the anthology. I agreed because when I first
started chemo treatments I was having trouble sleeping and welcomed doing
something productive. In addition to that, I was asked to become a member of the
OWI board. It has been a positive experience in every way.
In February, I rewrote and expanded my essay, “Remembering
Miss Tobin,” which was among the top ten finalist in 2014 Erma Bombeck human
interest competition, but never published. I revised and renamed the new essay, “Miss Tobin’s Special Gifts,”
and submitted it to Whispering Prairie Press for their KC Voices magazine.
Earlier this month I received an e-mail that the editor “loved” my essay asked
for permission to use it. Of course, I accepted.
Earlier this month, I pulled out an old essay about the day my
husband became a US citizen. The expanded version corrected mistakes in the
original and included the night we met at a USO dance. I wasn’t able to
attend my critique group to read the story, so my good friend Alice printed it
off and read it for me then called and relayed everyone’s comments. Using many
of their suggestions, I cut the original version from around 1,000 words to
750, changed the title, and the end result resulted in a tighter and I think better
story. It’s a long shot, but I submitted it to Chicken Soup for the Soul: My
Kind Of America. I won’t know until June if "A Good Day for A New Citizen" is accepted. If I don’t hear by then
I’ll know it isn’t a good fit, but I’ll remain hopeful.
Last week, my mind wandered to my childhood neighborhood in
North St. Louis and a memory of an unusual boy who lived down the alley. He
was a few years older than the rest of the boys on our block, who never invited him to play,
so he usually stood and watched the rest of us have fun. I felt sorry for him,
but he also made me feel uneasy, the way he stared and watched the
rest of us. That memory resulted in a short story about a lonely
writer/blogger/teacher who spies on his coworkers and students and uses what he learns about them to get ahead. It’s an odd
piece and I’m not sure what will become of it, but it might eventually find a home.
More than a month ago, I started on an essay about losing my
hair, but I’m not quite ready to finish that one yet.
I’ve put my novel aside for the time being, but who knows
maybe if I get a burst of inspiration I’ll pick it up again. Now that I
finished the “red devil” chemo sessions, have started on “chemo light” treatments, and will start physical rehab next week to get my strength back, I might get inspired.
How about you? Have you ever written to heal—from an
illness, grief, personal tragedy, or for any other reason? If so, has writing helped?
