You can now find my book on Amazon!
The rest of my unbelievable story!
More lessons!
More metaphors!
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The book is currently available on Kindle. I will be working on the print and Nook versions soon.
Adventures in Publishing
Somehow it seems appropriate to be here three years after my tsunami divorce.
Just days after the end, I picked up a pen and wrote voluntarily for the first time in my life. Days after that, I moved my journal to the computer and began to craft a book out of my life. I wrote consistently, even compulsively, for a couple months. It was therapy. I spewed my rage and sorrow upon the keyboard and somehow some a story was crafted. Then, as abruptly as I started writing, I stopped. For two years, I knew that I intended to finish the book, but I couldn’t bring myself to work on it. The original intensity had faded, yet it was too painful to give the file more than a cursory look.
Finally, last winter, I knew I was ready to begin again. A friend recommended that I start this blog. It was a great suggestion, as this has been a place for honing my writing, brainstorming ideas, learning to be comfortable with my writing and story being “out there,” and it has opened up bigger opportunities. It has also been a distraction from writing the book; 800 word typo-filled blog posts are much easier to write than a full-length fully-edited book. Who knew? 🙂
My goal for this summer was to actually finish the book rather than just talk about it. I’m pretty much there. It’s written. It’s formatted. It’s currently being edited. Once the final changes are made, I’ll upload the final version into KDP (Kindle Direct Publishing) and click “submit.” (…and then re-format the whole thing again for the print version…but I’m not ready to think about that yet!)
A few months ago, I wrote a post contemplating when I could call myself a writer. I definitely feel like one now after a solid month of sitting on a hard chair in a hot office pounding away at the keys. The sore brain and butt confirm it. So does the almost full ream of paper it took to print the thing for the editor:)
It’s been a crazy summer pushing to get all my projects done before school starts up again (which for teachers around here is just a couple weeks away!). I used a 4-part motivation/organization/idea board to keep me going.
It’s crazy to think that I’ll be ready to change the label on the “book” square soon. Any suggestions for what I should add there?
I know my boyfriend and the animals will be happy to have me spend more time downstairs instead of holed up in my office. He (the boyfriend, not the dog!) leaves me little notes around my desk. I found this one in the spiral I use to jot down notes a couple days ago.
Tiger and Maddy have enjoyed my time writing. This is on the couch behind my desk.
This has been an amazing adventure. The book has been so therapeutic to write; working with the story has helped to distance me from some of the pain. I have learned so much in the process as I have taken the needed steps to take the book from its infancy three years ago to a finished and published (and hopefully read!) product.
I love that I’m celebrating (yes, celebrating) the three-year anniversary of the tsunami with the completion of the book. It feels like I’m ready to close that chapter of my life and move on to my new lessons.
Until then, I am enjoying some summer (which means resting my brain and running my butt) while awaiting word (hopefully not too many!) from the editor. And, soon, I hope to push “submit!”
The Day the Marriage Died
Up until now, everything I have posted has been recently written, almost 3 years since the end of my marriage. I recently went back and visited some of my earlier writings, drafted in the weeks and months after he left. I’ve decided to share some of that, to expose the raw underbelly of divorce. Please be aware that this writing has a different tone. The emotions and language are harsh as they capture my reaction on the day the marriage died.
Wellness is not measured by the amount of broccoli you eat or the number of miles you can run. It is not found in the number of punches on your yoga membership card or the double digits of your sit-up count. Wellness is not indicated by the reading of the blood pressure cuff or the size indicated on the label of your jeans.
I used to think I was well; I had all of the above mastered. My lean, muscled body spoke of the intense workouts it was subjected to along with the strict vegetarian diet that was used to fuel the exercise sessions. I awoke before dawn to ensure that I could fit a workout into my hectic schedule as a middle school teacher. I fit long runs in on open evenings or on the weekends. I watched everything I ate, avoiding meat and keeping a careful eye on the amount of fat consumed. My favorite way to spend the weekends was working in my extensive garden or going on long hikes in the nearby North Georgia mountains.
I used to think I was well. But, I wasn’t. All it took to strip away all of physical manifestations of health was a few short sentences. A text, sent across the country on a sunny Saturday afternoon, arriving unexpectedly on my phone.
July 11, 2009 12:38 p.m.
I’m sorry to be such a coward leaving you this way. I am leaving. Please reach out to someone let the dogs out as I am leaving the state. The code for the garage is 5914. I’m truly sorry but I can’t do this anymore. Please give me some time to come to terms with my decision. I will call you in a few days. I am sorry that I have failed you.
Lesson One
When two become ones, you are able to see yourself clearly.
Fear gripped. Legs collapsed. Brain stuttered. Lungs heaved. Gut clenched. Body trembled. World shattered. Visceral. Violent.
My father’s arms engulfed me as I lay shaking on the floor, my body and brain rebelling from my new reality.
“What can I do for you? Do you want me to call mom?” my dad offered, seeking for a way to comfort his only child.
“Yes, please,” I responded, forcing the words out through my locked lungs.
He reluctantly left me in a heap on the hallway floor in my aunt and uncle’s house as he moved to the dining room to make the call to my mother in Texas, whom he had divorced decades earlier.
My brain barely registered his soft, yet strained voice in conversation several feet away from me. My hands gripped my phone with urgency, willing it to send another message. Wanting this to be a mistake. A joke. Anything but real. A little anger pushed through the initial shock, enough for me to summon the courage to flip open the phone, using muscle memory trained over years to scroll down twelve names to Mr. T, the nickname he used to put himself in the phone he bought for me years before.
“Hello. You’ve reached T of MMS. I cannot come to the phone right now, but please leave a message and I will get back to you as soon as possible.”
I took a deep breath and left a message, almost unintelligible through my tears, my shaking, and my heaving chest.
“T. I don’t understand. What is this? A text message? Sixteen years and a text message? Please don’t do this. Not like this. Call me. Please.”
I closed the phone, severing the connection.
It sat there silent. Taunting me. I opened it again, this time to send a text message.
What about the dogs? Are the dogs okay? Call me.
It remained silent, the screen dark.
Lessons From the End of a Marriage 