My Tornado

Photo credit: http://www.morguefile.com/

Well, it’s November already. Which I’ve noticed has become—probably when I wasn’t paying attention—national “What are you grateful for?” month.

Fine. Great. Good.

Gratitude is a miraculous thing. Right? Yes.

I learned about the value of having an attitude of gratitude a long time ago. There’s a little tool I was taught in 12-step recovery called a Gratitude List. The basics are: make a list (written or typed) of ten things a day you’re grateful for. Do this for two weeks, or longer if you wish. Easy Peasy.

The clincher is, you can’t repeat the same thing twice. Not so easy. And let me tell you, after the first few days, you start listing things like: I’m grateful for toilet paper. This works though. Point is, it can be anything, really. And as is human nature, we tend to lose sight of the little things around us. Toilet paper is really kinda important, don’t you think? Yeah, me too.

So, try it if you want. I’ve done it many times over the years and it really does help switch your focus from the maybe not so great things you’re living through to the things in your life that are great.

Which leads me to my original point of writing a post today.

Right now, at this very moment, there’s a tornado hovering over my life. It’s a big sucker too! Filled with all sorts of debris it’s picked up along the way since it started as a small funnel cloud over four years ago.

As a result, I’m having a little bit of trouble keeping my focus. I’m having a little bit of trouble managing my emotions. I’m having a little bit of trouble keeping my anxiety to a manageable level. And I’m having a little bit of trouble writing.

Who am I kidding? —I’m having a lot of trouble, really.

Those that know me well, know I’m a pretty driven person. I’ve been described as tenacious on more than one occasion. Not sure if I’m truly tenacious or just plain stubborn. Maybe both, but either way, I’m the kind of person that goes after what I want, and I don’t stop until I get it. Doesn’t matter what it is either. This has been the case in regards to my writing.

I started writing about four years ago; this is also when the tornado started. Coincidence? No. Not the cause the tornado. More like the effect.

Anyway...

I’ve been very blessed in my short writing career. It’s in its infancy and I’m doing all the things necessary to try and help it grow. My first book was published in August of this year and I’m currently working on a series, as well as a co-written paranormal project.

The first book in my series is done. The second is half done. The last several weeks I’ve been working on editing, smoothing, tweaking, rewriting whole chunks, etc. of the first MS. Writers know, it’s what we do. And we do it at length when we’re trying to make it as perfect as possible so that maybe a publisher will want to buy it.

But in my case... the fucking tornado! Grr! Yes, I did growl as I wrote that.

The process can be grueling as it is, and in my case, the tornado has made it even more so.
The debris in the tornado keeps slamming me in the head. And did I mention most of the debris swirling in the funnel was tossed up in the air by none other than yours truly? Nothing like making your bed and then lying in it.

Good times! Um, no.

In my effort to concentrate and get myself on track—basically ignoring the funnel so I can write—I’ve managed to do everything but. And I’m really frustrated with myself. I write love stories, and trying to do that when the last thing I feel is happy-happy joy-joy, is just plain fucking hard.

I’ve had to make a lot of changes this year. Some of those are good and some are very painful. I’ve had a lot of loss because of, and during the tornado. My father unexpectedly passed away, August of 2012. I’ve lost friends. Cherished ones. Some I chose to walk away from, some walked away from me. I could go on listing the other things that are in the wings waiting to take a hike, too, but I think you get my drift.

~ ~ ~

Now, here’s the thing. And it’s a rather cool thing, too. Just above this raging tornado is a gorgeous rainbow with a bright and clear blue sky behind it.

There have been some really great things happening amidst the madness. For example: As I mentioned, I sold and published my first book this year! That’s pretty freaking amazing. Also, I started a new job at a new company, less than a month ago. Some could argue that’s also contributing to the tornado, and maybe in some ways it does, but I choose to see it as a good thing instead.

It keeps my mind occupied during the day, and because of that it helps distract me from the fact the tornado is about to rip the roof off. After all, I can’t do a damn thing about the roof. And I can’t do anything about the tornado either. All I can do is the next thing in front of me and, as a friend says, put an X through the day.

So... gratitude right?
Yes. I can also be grateful.

Here’s ten things I’m grateful for today while I try and write through my tornado.

1) My children.
2) The friends that have stuck by me, old and new.
3) My new job.
4) My salary to pay for my home.
5) Music.
6) My agent who is pushing me to give my writing my all.
7) My computer.
8) Being able to laugh at myself.
9) The ability to cry when I need to.
10) A God of my own understanding that I know isn’t going to drop me on my ass.

What’s the next thing in front of me to do? Go work on that first chapter.
I’m going to go do that now.

With love,
Dorothy

One Year... Dear Daddy.

Dear, Daddy

It’s been a year—one complete year, since I lost you. And there hasn’t been a moment since that horrible day that I’ve not thought of you.

I was with my two closest friends. You’ve heard me talk about them many times. You would’ve liked them had you ever met them. I was with them and it was a beautiful day. We were at the lake and I got the call from T that the police had come to the door and they needed to talk to me, but I wasn’t home. They wouldn’t tell him, it had to be me. He called me because he couldn’t fathom what on earth our local police department had to tell me that he wouldn’t be allowed to know.

I couldn’t either.

He hung up with me, saying he’d call me back as the officer came back to verify his identity so they could in fact give him the message.

While I waited one of my friends said, “Call your Father.”

I refused. There was no reason to call you. You lived in New York. I live in Arizona.

...there was no reason to call you because the message couldn’t possibly be about you.

You see, you were invincible, Daddy. I know you thought so, too. You survived years of self-inflicted abuse to your body and so much more, and my mind refused to even consider for one second that it could be about you.

But when T called me back, he could barely get the words out. In fact, I started to lose patience with him as my own panic rose because he was stumbling over his words and I finally blurted, “Just tell me!”

Then he said it.

He said the words I never considered I’d ever hear. He said the thing that my mind refused to consider.

He said you were dead.

And then I couldn’t breathe.

How? How could this be happening? How could you be gone? You weren’t supposed to die before Mommy. She’s the sick one, not you. You were supposed to retire and get out of that damn truck then move to Arizona and play with your grandchildren, watch them grow up. You were supposed to be here so I could take care of you.

How? How could this be?

I still can’t wrap my head around it. That day, I could barely talk. I wouldn’t call anyone. I simply could not bear to say the words out loud.

My father is dead. My father is dead.

My father is dead!
I choke on them still. My fingers stutter and skip keys as I type them. You were alone in your room for two days before they found you. I hate that you were alone. You shouldn’t have been alone. You should’ve been here with me.

The following day I began making calls. Only a few. One of the friends that was with me when I got that call from T sat with me and watched me quietly through all of it. She told me that she’d never seen me look as I did that day.

A shadow of me. A broken me. It’s the only way I can define it based on how she described it and based on how I felt.

That night my body shook with sobs as I wept over the loss of you. I’ve never cried so hard in my life and I’ve never felt that level of emotional pain. It was endless.

Losing you rocked me to my core and I hadn’t been prepared for it in any way, shape, or form. I simply... wasn’t.

A year later, it’s still not any easier. I’m still not prepared. Some days it’s actually worse. Some days, I’m assaulted with the knowledge of you being gone and the reality of it knocks me on my ass, hard, and I can’t breathe. I cry a lot. Still.

I went to NY a few days after the call. I took my son, your twenty-one year old grandson, with me. He walked through all of it with me. We cleaned out your small apartment. We handled your affairs, and we had your funeral.

Many people came. Many people loved you; they mourned you. And people stood up and spoke for you. I stood up and spoke for you. And I gave you the best that I could. It wasn’t what you wanted as a service, but it was the best I could do.

Then I came home.

A shadow of me. A broken me.

So much has happened since you’ve been gone. Good things, bad things, and everything in between.
There are moments when I need to talk to you. In those moments I need to hear you tell me it’s all going to be okay or tell me you’re proud of me. And there are moments I need to hear you call me Puppy and then I need to laugh and joke with you.

Everyone says you already know all of the things I want to tell you, but it’s not the same. It’s just... not. No one knows me like you do. No one understands me like you do. I’m cut from your mold. I’m your kid, as you always used to say.

You are supposed to be here and it’s just not right that you aren’t.

I sold my first book and it launched this week, Daddy and my God, I just want to call you so badly and tell you all about it. I want you to call on Sunday, right at dinnertime, just like you always did for years. I want to hear you say, “What’s up?” So I can say, “Just sitting down to have dinner.” And then you can reply, “Oh! I’m sorry.”

The same, every week. I laugh about it because you always sounded so surprised that it was dinnertime.

But Sunday comes each week and my phone doesn’t ring. I guess it would be kinda’ crazy if it did, but still, I guess I want to believe that it could happen because I need it to.

I know you’re watching. I’m sure you know everything that’s happened and is still happening. I know you’re in my heart. And I know that you know I love you.

But I want to tell you anyway.

So, this is the best I can do. A letter that you can’t read, but others will. A letter I need to write so I can honor you.

I miss you so damn much it amazes me. I never thought I would miss you this much. I never thought I’d still be crying a year later. You were a grumpy pain in my ass, but I liked you. A lot.

I loved listening to you complain about work, or whatever issue was going on with you, though I didn’t know at the time I loved it. And I loved telling you about my writing as well as sharing my troubles with you, this I did know at the time.

I know that you died knowing I love you. And I know you loved me, too.

I love you, Daddy and I miss you so much it’s agonizing. But I know you’re at peace. And out of everything, that’s the best I could hope for.

Love,

Your Puppy

 –Dorothy

Shut The F*ck Up And Write...

Stop trying to plan the perfect plot.

Stop brooding over the mistakes in your last short story or book.

Stop pretending you're working it all out in your head.

Stop waiting for the muse to strike.

Stop making excuses about all you have to do and that you simply have no time.

Stop pinning, tweeting, facebooking and texting.

And, for the love of GOD stop watching TV.

Be daring enough to lose sleep in order to follow your dream.

Be brave enough to try.

Forget the dishes, dusting and vacuuming.

One word at a time turns into one paragraph at a time and then all of the sudden you have a chapter written.

The only thing that's acceptable to be doing while not writing is reading.

You wanted this didn't you?

Yes, you did.

So, shut the fuck up and write!

Love you, 

Dorothy aka WookiesGirl

http://www.dorothyfshaw.com/