I had big plans for NaNoWriMo, intending to write a novel inspired by my past. Turned out, writing my personal story took a huge toll within just two days. The word count required coupled with the vulnerability the story itself inspired broke me. I cried. A lot. I fell apart. I slept more than I should to escape the memories my work had unleashed.
I decided to shelve my idea for a book until a later date.
Then, I dreamed of Little Me.
I woke up and knew I had to give her story another chance to be written. Scared, I decided to just write stream of consciousness to get myself started. I wrote about my fear and misgivings. I wrote about where I am right now. Freshly divorced and working so damn hard to figure out who I am. And then, her story started to come out onto the screen. In free verse.
I haven't written in free verse since college. At first, I fretted. This wasn't what I wanted. I wanted the story to come out like a novel. Beginning. Middle. End. Not this string of seemingly unconnected free verse poems. But then I remembered I was writing this story for Little Me, and if this was how she remembered her pain, then this would be the way I would write her story.
Here is one of the poems:
An unwilling momma
A monster who grins.
Like fireflies little moments
Brother and me
Pretend we are safe.
Little Me and I have a long way to go before her story is finished. That's okay. It's taken a long time to get to where we are...ready to write. The telling will happen in its right timing.