Mothers' Day

It’s just gone  two and I haven’t called her yet.

I sent a card.

I will call her eventually, even though she won’t remember five minutes later. It’s what daughters do.

I’ve spent the morning working on the book. It’s bringing back all kinds of memories which have remained peacefully sleeping for years. Many writers say that they use their own lives as material. That’s something I’ve never done, and always resisted doing mainly because my memories aren’t exactly upbeat, a quality my main markets want in a work of fiction. So I’ve always used my imagination, pretending to be other people. It’s why I write fiction, as a means of escape from my life.
Writing a factual account is both easy and hard. Easy because I don’t have to plan a plot. Hard because I’ve tried not to remember many things that have happened to me, and looking back is painful.

I keep wondering why I’m doing this. There’s a good chance nobody will ever read the book so why bother as it’s so painful? But I know the answer to that one. I have to do it for me. Thanks to Lulu I can get the book printed and send it to all those people who jumped to conclusions, who judged me without ever hearing my side of the story.

Today I’ve been writing about my father – how he was committed and sent to a mental hospital, and then about his funeral five years later. All the feelings I felt back then are coming back, the sadness, the guilt, the anger, the sheer hypocrisy of people but I have to admit that so far, it’s not hurting as badly as I thought it would. Maybe it’s doing me some good, finally getting it all down on paper. I hope so anyway.

I’ve just passed the ten thousand word mark so it’s time to stop working for a while and do some gardening.