Shenandoah's Eclectic Scribblings

No discussion of writing through grief would be complete without my explaining how deeply I owe my writerly self to my mother. I was reminded of this two weeks ago, and it’s taken until now for me to face actually writing about it ... and posting it. At this point, I'd appreciate being able to just move on with life, not think about things, and definitely not cry. And up until, oh, last week, every time I think about Mom, or about anything else emotional, I’d instantly tear up. I’m trying to rebuild some momentum with the writing. Difficult at moments with some extra reading I’ve needed to do—contest judging, which I really enjoy. But writing blog posts has come more slowly, too. Beyond that, though, I’m finding it nearly impossible to focus. Already suffering from what I term motherhood-induced ADHD (...25 years of being interrupted EVERY TWO MINUTES for hours a day), I’m finding if there’s anything else going on in the room that I might find even mildly interesting,

Yes, I know. Two posts in one day. Bad form. :) So, even though it's a year late, I've updated my "sources" page with research links for last May's novella, The Highwayman. Pretty excited that I finally got that up! If you read and enjoyed that story, take a look, or if you're just interested in the history behind it. I have a deleted scene I plan to post soon, as well. :)

Two months ago last week. Week before last was a bear. Not all was grief induced, although there was plenty of that as well—things definitely pointed to a certain amount of spiritual warfare, which shouldn’t surprise me, given everything going on in the world. In the middle of other things, I seriously wrestling with the question of whether I should even continue writing fiction for the aim of traditional publication—something every writer struggles with at some point or another—and just feeling so exhausted and overwhelmed by every little thing. As I told one of my friends, it’s been all I can do just to get through a homeschooling day (when even interacting with my children in a constructive manner feels like more than my introverted self wants to handle), and to drag myself to church and play my two praise songs. What’s the point of any of it? I am only one person, with so little influence and impact on the world around me that I wonder whether I’ve ever accomplished anything of