I didn’t write much last year, and the reason why is that I was constructing a different kind of narrative. My mother died unexpectedly last year while I was at WisCon, and finding a way to tell yourself the story in a way that makes sense is an important part of grief. Unfortunately, the whole thing was so sudden and unexpected, and so followed by the near death of my father and the death of my friend who was my primary support during this time that I feel like I need to instead retell the story of who I am.
I have, however, learned a lot of things about how much of what I think of as myself is a construct. Having the ground yanked away from under your feet will do that to you.
I’ve also learned that I have a deep psychological need to write, even if it’s just a sentence a night. I think that part of the that is that I like fiction better than life because fiction makes sense. Life seldom does. Life tells the truth, but it’s a dry, factual truth. Fiction tells you the truth in a way that won’t hurt you.
It’s almost the spring equinox, and I am Persephone, returning from the dead. Only it’s a sort of reversed version of the story, with Demeter in the earth, and my return is leaving her behind. And the ground opened up beneath me last spring. And I’m not quite back yet.
But I will be.
