Three months ago tonight, my mother died. In the turmoil of the week that followed, I struggled with remembering her - with honoring her. In Judaism we typically do this by reciting Kaddish daily - and with an effort and support from other I live in a community where I could do that. But the first handful of times I recited Kaddish it just felt ... powerless. The words are all too familiar, the ideas in it archaic, and most of all the way we recite it - quickly and then on to announcements or wishing each other a good day - seemed to draw me away rather than connect me to my mother's memory, God, a spiritual feeling.
Even without my telling her about this, my boss and colleague suggested study in lieu of (or addition to) whatever Kaddish I could manage to recite. This sounded terrific, and I looked at my bookcases and at texts I have interest in - but nothing caught my fancy.
And then it came to me. My mother is a writer. Was. Sorry, I forgot to say "was." It's only three months, you know.
My mother was a writer, and as I considered whether I could actually finish any of her projects (jury still out, by the way), I realized that what I can do, what I am very well equipped for (not that I'm not equipped for study), is writing.
I am a writer, and my mother was a writer. And I can write in her memory.
Now, I write every day. I journal for 18 minutes every morning, and I write creatively once a week, and I was doing a pretty good job at keeping this blog up. To honor my mother, I felt like I had to add something. So I added 18 minutes a day of writing - memories, fiction prompts, essay-like things.
I know I stopped writing the blog. I was writing, but I wasn't writing anything I felt I could share. I was in a bit of a block on that front. But I was writing.
And then, on October 26th, in response to a fantasy-like prompt from my writing friend, Sarah Mendonca, I hit upon a short story that, over the next couple of days became a long journey. And so, I signed up for NaNoWriMo, began to outline, and on November 1st began to write in earnest. More than 60,000 words later, on this last day of November, I have a complete draft of a novel and seven short stories based on the novel.
And today, I can come back to you and say, what a WILD experience. The words flowed in November - I didn't really have a plan, I didn't know at all where the story was taking me. I learned about mdy characters as I went, and I became invested in them the same way I get invested as a reader - I didn't want to stop writing the way I can't put down a book.
I won't tell you it's perfect - it's not. It needs a lot of work, now. Because I learned more and more about my characters as I wrote, I know I have to go back and correct things.
But folks, I wrote a book. I did it on my lunch hour, and in my journal writing time, and in my writing-in-memory-of-mom time, and in my blog time, and in my spare time, and in the middle of the night.
I let go, and a book came through me. My husband said at one point - about his own non-fiction writing and my fiction - that it's like Mom is behind us, out there in Olam Haba (the world to come), urging us to write.
Tonight, as I put the novel and short stories aside, to be revisited in January (I tell you, I can't wait to meet up with my characters again, but I know it's time to put them away), I am wondering what I will write tomorrow, when I wake up and don't write my novel. A week ago, I already returned to journaling in the morning, since the novel was done and I was working on the short stories.
Tonight, I return to the blog. I want to tell you I will keep up with it, but I don't know that I will. I want to think you care about this post, that it is meaningful to you. It is meaningful to me - I have been on a journey with my characters, and this blog didn't know. And this blog is a part of my journey as a writer, too. Perhaps I will blog again next week. Or perhaps I will be writing something, somewhere else. I can't promise which.
I can promise that I will be writing. I am a writer, and I am writing in memory of my mother, Julia, who was a writer.
