Rage Rising: How Do I Tell This?

Post-it Heaven

You all have stories you could tell.

Your spouse gets laid off. A child becomes very sick. Someone has to have surgery. A hurricane hits hard.

If you sat down to start the process of journaling or writing your story, where would you start?

I know. Overwhelming.

Most life stories span years. Mine do.

I asked God, “How do I tell this?”

His words, “Start at the beginning. Tell your story.”

Ugh. From the beginning to now, covers ten or more journals, full of daily rantings and puke-it-out-entries. Pages and pages. And pages.

I gathered them all–tricky since we just moved and stashed anything we didn’t immediately need in a storage building. Boxes and boxes of … yeah. Of stuff we don’t need. (That’s another chapter! Or another book!)

I began to go back and figure out what years I needed and gathered them in, along with a stack of post-its. If you have ever journaled and gone back to read those scribblings, you know that sometimes your “I’m gonna get this done today” voice is slowed or stopped altogether. You land on an entry that is so profound … or painful that you read it over and over, the memory washing over you.

One such entry is from January 2001 about a dream I had. Without telling you the whole thing, at the end of the dream I was caught up in grief so deep that I was sobbing, apparently for my daughter. When I woke, I could still hear the sobs. I asked the Lord what it meant. He said, “She won’t die, but she has to go through it and learn to move on.” I had written the Bible verse, “I can do all things through Christ Who strengthens me.” Phil. 4:13.

Easy to say then. Before.

In September 2002, a year and a half later, my daughter, Jenn, got very sick.

Prophetic? Maybe.

I hadn’t read that entry from back then. Sometimes I go back and read a journal but I hadn’t gone back to this one.

Until now.

Rage Rising

Duck Rag

I can feel it brewing.

It feels like a fist in my gut–twisting and turning–until it needs to explode. And somehow that fist connects to my eyes, because I want to weep. A monster resides in my chest and is pounding its way through to my thinking, my decisions and my mouth. And what comes out of my mouth are words ready to stab anyone within range.

Just being honest.

I’m starting a blog series on anger–my experience with it–that is. Rage Rising may seem like a strong title for a blog post, but rage or anger is a powerful emotion. And not that I want to puke this stuff out here. I want everybody to think I’m this nice lady who writes and doodles. Plays with grandkids. Bakes brownies for people out of the goodness … of my … heart. Not someone who could … no I wouldn’t do that. I can’t even type that. That’s awful.

I will post here every Friday, sometimes Thursday evening, depending on the schedule.

What I am hoping is that I will continue to heal through writing this series. Plus. I hope that you will read and interact with me and together we might open those memories and wounds, and expose them to the Light. And heal.

I’ll go first.

Anger is what fed me back then. I’m sure it had been lurking underneath before, but when my husband had an accident where the other guy was committing suicide and okay with possibly taking Dearly Beloved with him, my mom was dying of lung cancer, a son was addicted to cocaine and my daughter was losing ground to West Nile–all within around two years, I started down that dark tunnel of rage boiling inside.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I promise to keep these posts short and will be consistent with posting once a week. I will always post to Goodreads, my own website, and refer to them in my email newsletters, (you can sign up to receive them on my website, also).

Eventually, I will put these into a book to be published at some point, so people searching for books on anger recovery or anger management can hopefully find the help that they need.

That’s it! See you in the next post.

I Made Things Up About Osceola, Nebraska!

I’m just sitting here on my new back porch, eating lunch. The birds are twittering back and forth. The cat is lurking and probably stalking those birds. Temperature is a balmy 81 degrees. It’s August in Nebraska. I’m not making this up!

So why plot a book in small town Osceola, Nebraska? Seems like nothing happens here, right?

If you read the Orange book about Osceola, there was, at one time, a shoemaker, livestock sales barn, furniture store, billiard parlor (there still is one–in my basement!), lightning rod salesman and on and on!
Yup. Things have changed. There’s now a machine and die company, Quality Machine and Tools, Inc. run by Tim and Kelly.

We have two eateries: Terry’s Drive-Inn run by … Terry, White Eagle and another one in the works.

There are several Ag-related businesses and the biggest bins this side of anywhere. Antiques store, plumber. I can’t name them all! Plus the county seat, hospital and nursing home.

So again, why use Osceola for my book series? No Hobbits here. Life is pretty ordinary.

 

Unless … you make things up. :o)

Did you know there are sink holes and caves and secret pools here?

Only in my books.

Because I make things up!

And that’s what writers do.

Write? Any Day But Today!

I’m tired and cranky and all out of sorts.

And I have fifty chapters left in what I think is my 18th pass of edits.

I’m sick of the story. I would rather clean the oven or gather junk for a trip to Goodwill.

The sun is somewhere else. Not here anyway. Gloomy gloomy.

But. I am starting my writing day at 10:30 a.m. as usual. Somedays it’s at 2 p.m. or 3.

But today I begin in Faith, knowing that if I but start, the page will carry me away. The story will grab hold of my heart again, and I will be sad when my tired body needs to quit.

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