So I'm still getting used to this whole idea.  Do I use this as a diary, albeit with understanding that it will be viewed, or do I use this as a sounding board for my submissions for publication?  How about both?  Besides, right now, I really don't have to worry too much as to whether someone else is reading this or not!

With all that has transpired in the last year, I feel I have a wealthy of material to tap into to begin writing, whether its poetry, short stories, or even a short novel (I guess that's a novella, eh?).  I haven't sorted through this jumble in my head in so long.  I know it's all there... it's just matter of sorting and filing.  I tried to explain to a therapist once how I catalogue thoughts for writing... she prescribed some really strong medication after that session!  The best way I can describe it is that I have a running script during the day.  I walk into a room and I think "She walks into the room".  I flip through a mental rolodex (remember those) to find the right adjectives for the lighting, the climate, the smells... I thought everyone thought that way until I had that therapy session.

So maybe, you are wondering, what transpired this year?  How about betrayal, tragedy, loss and redemption?  Coupled with drastic weight loss and a bad case of hives but I think I can omit those parts.  Here's the rub; its not over - neither the year nor the impending tragedy yet to befall.  My Gran is still battling cancer and will have to stay on chemo until she decides she simply doesn't want to do it anymore or she dies.  The question is, has the last year prepared me enough for her death?  Certainly, the year was cathartic.  Oddly, it is the death of my estranged father that has left me the most battered.  I struggle to define how I feel.  Not just about his death, his life and our relationship but how all of those things left me feeling as a person.  I really am at a loss to describe the way I feel about anything and everything since his death.  There is a story in that, I am sure.  Not a story about Sandy or me or even a father/daughter story.  A story about feeling indescribable, about finding yourself surprised that you are standing in your own kitchen, about feeling altered but not necessarily affected by the specific situation.

Death throttled me this year.  The loss of people, of trust, of innocence and understanding.  And in its wake, I felt oddly buoyed.