This year, I am in an odd place. I have a fulfilling job, a lovely house, and a supportive husband. But, something is missing.
It seems I spent my whole life trying to get here. And now I don’t know where to go. My dreams of having a baby ended with heartache. That dream is closed for now. Still, I have another dream, a writing dream. My book is still in its gestational stage. For years, I have had a rough draft of my book, but in many ways, I am no longer the person who wrote those stories. Yet, I know in my heart that the story needs to be told.
All of the best stories are based on truth. Maybe not a literal truth always, instead, sometimes, a figurative truth. My story is memoir, but there is also an artistic license one must take at times. It is called creative nonfiction for a reason. My goal is to always capture the truth of my childhood. And, as I’ve said before, my dad’s voice echoes in my head at times wanting to be captured on the page.
For many years, I have put off looking at myself in the mirror. To write about oneself truthfully, one must know oneself. And I may know myself, but sometimes, I don’t like what I see.
So this year, I pledge to see myself and to work on myself so that the me I write about, is who I want to be.