About two years ago, I decided to start writing fiction. This is my author name. This has been a learning process. I have started my book, but am struggling to get it going. I write a bit then get bogged down.
All sorts of life things get in the way.
I’ve been married for 35 years. I have three adult children. Two have left the nest. We gave up our house five years ago and live with our oldest daughter in her condo. She has autism and has a full time job. She is dependent on us for many things including transportation, cooking, and other things. I have to start thinking in terms of the time when we will no longer be around for her.
Covid-19 has brought her independence to the forefront of my mind. My husband has been slowly dying of myelofibrosis (bone marrow cancer) for the last five years. And Covid has made me think about her future. Death and illness could come at any time. So dark.
So this is the beginning of this blog. I have tried other blogs. I guess I need a place to ruminate about the world and about fiction without offending my friends. So if you find yourself reading this blog be warned. I have been a Never Trumper since Trump arrived on the scene. I am politically homeless, but I used to identify as a Republican.
So there you have it. I’ll probably re-write this completely once I really find a focus.
The book I am writing has to do with the struggle of raising a child with a disability. The lie of it. The struggle of it. The loneliness of it. The way those without this particular station in life are viewed by others. The normal parents with normal children. And the reality that they have struggles, too.