Writing is personal—a baring of the soul. From writer to reader a bond must be formed; whether it be fiction or non-fiction. A heart (emotional) connection must be made with the reader if there is to be a willing investment of time in the story. I am a writer—but just as important—I am a reader, and as a reader this is my expectation.
Exciting yet intimidating; that is the process of honest, transparent writing; leaving a part of yourself on every page. Every character, every scene, every word in description and dialogue carries the writer’s DNA. Every story is unique.
Historical fiction; it had never appealed to me. I write supernatural suspense. But what happens when the past meets the present in the form of a story needing to be told? Not just any story—but my Mother’s story. How personal is that? And how about taking all the dry details (no matter how compelling) and turning them into a fictional tale of redemption rising from the broken pieces of a young child’s life.
It has been said: “Some stories are meant to be written.” I believe this is one of them. I have begun the journey and deeply embedded in the words of the story—in varied measure—you will find my DNA.
Below are the first few paragraphs of chapter one of my Mother’s story.
“SHADES of YELLOW; TAINTED WHITE”
It could have been a day, like any other day—but this day was different.
“She is not your Mother.”
Five words to change Lena’s life forever.
It wasn’t that she loved her life, but it was hers—it’s all she knew—until now. Lena kicked at the dirt along the edge of the tall grass bordering the familiar country road, turning brown with the early August drought.
Tears came hard, but today they moved with ease down Lena’s cheeks, mixing with the dust, leaving a mud stain of brown on her hand as she wiped at her face. The late morning carried the promise of another scorching summer day. She walked—slow—stepping on thirteen years of shattered pieces of the girl she thought she was.
Two hours ago seemed an eternity. The conversation beat at her brain; the words assaulted her senses and she wondered at her limited understanding of what she had heard. Japanese was familiar; English was still so foreign. Had she understood Martha correctly?