My manuscript is currently pages of memories and insights. No order, just what I am remembering during the moments I write. I read that writers should not get too caught up or worried about “form,” because eventually paragraphs and pages will begin falling into place and one’s writing will begin to take on a consistent representation of the story you are telling.
I’ve told you before that I love reading my past blog posts. The words flow. The words are meaningful. Most importantly, the words are true.
I read stories about a forever little girl who never got to live the little girl life. My heart aches for my young little self because I remember “back then” and it was unbearable. How I made it out alive can only be attributed to Jesus and my great grandparents, Mam-ma and Pap-pa. I talk about them a lot in this blog because they are everything to me.
I can look back and feel their love for me, see the spark in their eyes when they saw me running from my mom’s car to their front door where they were standing, waiting for me to arrive for the weekend. Being with Mam-ma and Pap-pa meant I could be me, which was a kid. I was lacking in so many ways — life with my mother was confusing, unstable and conditional. The amount of patience and dedication and love they had to fill in all of my holes, I can only understand and appreciate today, decades later. But I suppose that’s how it should be. I was a kid, and kids just need to know they are loved, not the specifics.
