When a parent dies, it’s the end. Or is it? Does it have to be?
If you ask me, there are countless ways to reason why someone’s stories will hold value to their descendants.
Often people “get it” too late.
Curious individuals took notice of my project. I wasn’t the one reading People or Time or Good Housekeeping in hospital and medical office reception areas. I focused hand-editing typed text on printer paper punched in a three-ring binder. I tended to my own people, my subject characters. Eraser crumbs flew. Often, when my concentration broke, conversation sparked with the intrigue of others. Fist bumps all around.
I spent many years navigating my elderly parents, Robin and Buster, through healthcare facilities. In retrospect, I knew little of their story at the time. I took to writing my first book of a family trilogy, Brides of 1941, while championing my eldest son in his multi-year recovery following a near-fatal car accident.
Many, many individuals applauded my example. They shared their own intentions to “write someday.” Some for themselves. Others to engage aging parents, or a special aunt or uncle, whose memorabilia would resurrect the last vestiges of a lost era filtered through normal age-related memory loss.
Personal history is centered on a sharing culture. One where we learn to appreciate all our experiences, both happy and tragic, for the meaning and value they’ve brought into our lives.
The best advice I can offer is this. There is no magical stardust. You have to want to see this kind of project through more than anything else. Do the work and you can make it happen.
Believe in yourself and your talent.
Then sharpen your quill.
The first book in a trilogy from Spiky Pig Press.
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Park City UT 84060-0414
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