Reclaiming My Story: The Best Prefix Ever, Part 2

 A big thank you to all who read and commented on last week's blog post. I'm glad you got something out of it and appreciate your kind words and input.

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At the end of September, I met a woman who has become a good friend and mentor. She gave me a binder about her small group. It comprised tabs and hard copies of things she'd written. The last one described something I'd never heard of before--and almost every word described this personal spiritual issue I'm getting through, one step at a time. I re-read and wrote some notes about it, circling some words and phrases.

Rediscover meaning

Reshape personal narrative

Reclaim your story

Reclaim means is to rescue or bring back from error to ways of living or thinking regarded as right; to demand the return of; try to get back. Some synonyms include reshape, refashion, regroup.

This has been the best year yet of having mentors. Let me reclaim feeling better after talking with someone. I haven't had this in several years. I've gone too long without it.

Last Monday afternoon, I met up with this friend/mentor in her office. When I first met her, she bought a copy of Strong & Steadfast . When we initially spoke on the phone and I told her about my books, she said she wanted to buy a copy of this novel. As we talked last week, she had the book with her and showed me she was more than halfway done. She said she loved it and couldn't put it down.

She only wanted to know more about my books, what inspired me to write them.

I realized she's in my target audience. She bought my book, almost sight unseen. For the past six or seven years, that target audience I'd had was gone. It's now time to reclaim that--as well as other things about being an author.

Let me reclaim my role as an author after so many years of others teasing me, blowing me off, or letting me know in no uncertain terms they were not going to support me. I forgive all of them of their outright unkind words and actions (or lack of them).

As an author, I've faced lots of rejections. But getting so many of them to the detriment of my health and well-being. Let me finally experience joy, support, acceptance.

The conversation with this friend/mentor lasted much longer than expected. As we slowly wrapped up our time together, I thought of these questions: 

What if your story was different from everyone else's in some group? 

What if you experienced something outside the confines and norms of social media?

The Best Prefix Ever

Never in my life have I appreciated the re- prefix.

Some of its definitions in my Webster's New World College Dictionary: back, returning to a previous state; again, anew, over again.

one of the purposes of my indefinite hiatus. 

I've been mostly under the radar, still writing. Finally coming up for air after publishing so many books. 

Refresh

Where do I go next?

I'm also in a deep, detailed spiritual 

renewal 

A few days ago, a significant spiritual leader bought some copies of my books. I'd planned to give them to him; he insisted on buying them. I was dazed for the rest of the day.

What effect will this have on my writings? Will I have better direction, more support? Will I 

rebrand 

any or all of my books? That word is not in the physical copy of my moderately-used dictionary. Therefore, I'll look it up on the dictionary web site. What it means: "In business, to rebrand is to change the way customers see a product or company by changing logos, names, or designs."

Will I

refine

-or-

revise

my earlier novels, like Crawling to the Light ? Distance creates clarity. And the clarity makes things, as one of the definitions for re-

anew

In the Center of a Theater

 Here's a small piece I wrote a little over a year ago:

    I sit in the center of a theater. Photos of yesteryear adorn the walls of the entrance. It tries to look new, but it’s old.

    So are the people in the auditorium, in the lobby, as if it’s a reunion, one I unintentionally crashed. An older gentleman in the far-left aisle seat, a rolling walker in front of him, says to someone, “I was first here in 1944.”

    All these people fill the seats as the Saturday storytelling matinee starts. What are their stories? Did they frequent this theater back in the day? To dance? To socialize? To watch the latest movie? Anything from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly to Raiders of the Lost Ark.

    More than likely, they met their lifetime mate here. They may have passed, and their surviving spouse has come here to honor their marriage.    

     I used to live in this town. No one recognizes me as I sit here in the center of the Historic Grove Theater.

Saturday Night's Dream

 Oh, the vivid dreamer and prolific author I am!

And oh, the privilege to write down my dreams!

Here's the one I had the night before last.

[Begin dream]

I finally had the courage to ask Relative, "Why have you not read my books?"

She said, "I don't like them anymore."

I tried not to cry, yell, or wring my hands. "I can't believe you're saying this. I was hoping you'd support me. I worked so hard on all of them. I've spent so much time on and invested my emotions into every word."

My husband was beside me and said to Relative, "I'd like you to consider reading her books and telling her what you liked about them."

Relative said to my husband, "History is more interesting, more significant."

[End dream]

It's Monday morning, and I'm still trying to get over this one.

A Journal Entry of a Seasoned Author/Rookie Screenwriter

Saturday, 5/23/2026

A wonderful afternoon I'm having. Nothing going on. Nothing I need to do at the moment. Writing sure is in me. It's still in me even though I'm not writing anything big. It's just past 7:00. Something about this down time, while I'm alone and scribbling away, that makes me think of Cultivate [a local coffee and flower shop]. I believe the last time I went there was earlier this year. To work on my screenplay. That had to be what I worked on. Cultivate, where I went to work on 3 books in a short period of time. Thought about all this as I read the latter part of [Ela Thier's] memoir . I love how she wrote about writers needing community and support. Going to a coffee shop, writing together, brainstorming. Well, I did the writing part. All those times I went to Cultivate, I went alone. Oh, that thinker I am sure was there, present, focused. One of few who was alone. Laptop, flash drive, notebook, and don't forget headphones. So I can listen to that Strong & Steadfast playlist for the millionth time. You can't undo the pain, the anger and the shame ["Blinded" by Mark Mulch]. I want you to scream my name ["Scream" by W.A.S.P.]. Won't be the one to hold you when you cry in the middle of the night ["The Devil That You Know" by Tattered Sons]. I'm rusted and weathered, barely holding together ["Weathered" by Creed]. The playlist is about an hour long. It got to be that way especially when I added on Your Love is a Rumor [by Tattered Sons]. That was my cue to get up, get some more water, go to the bathroom. Two hours of that. Get there at 8, get set up as efficiently as possible. The sooner, the better. In that way, the music of choice playing in the shop doesn't un-inspire me. That first song to remind me of why I wrote Strong & Steadfast . This sounds strange, but "Every Rose Has its Thorn" [by Poison]. That joke about being in so much pain. That joke about Bret supporting endo because of his tension on the word pain.

Then those words a few songs later in Home Again. Hard to believe I once had that song on repeat. Not only when I was diagnosed with endo, but also when I wrote the novel.

A Wordy Report: A Flashback to 2009

 "I did the best de-cluttering job, ever." I've said this a lot this month.

Not sure what it was about this time that allowed me to dig even deeper into getting rid of things. In all the times I've done this, the biggest challenge has always been paperwork. You'd think in going paperless, I'd have a cleaner house. If this, for a lack of better words, "paper purging project" served no other purpose, it was to find something I'd written in 2009.

No, it wasn't the clumsy, awkward beginnings of a story. It was a detailed report I'd written to send to an attorney. 

We'd immediately sought litigation from a car accident I experienced in the summer of 2008. I fractured some parts of my left wrist, my dominant hand, and had to have a piece of hardware installed.

Before too long, the hardware hurt. That's a good sign, my wrist was fully healed, and I no longer needed it. Only, I couldn't have the surgery right away to remove it; I had to finalize the settlement. My attorney needed to know how much this pain interfered with everything I did--which was everything but writing. A lot of physical (sometimes emotional) labor as a physical therapy tech. 

What I say now about these statements: (1) hard to believe I went through this and (2) I sure am wordy. Had I written novels around that time, how could I have tightened these statements? 

Did I throw this away? No, I'll keep it. It's a reminder of what I've overcome, what my life was like before I became an author.

P.S. We settled this case in early 2010.

P. P. S. On the second page, I tightened some of the writing.

Be There on Time

For as long as she could remember, Lilly wanted dance. Her parents went to plays, operas, and ballets. They had season tickets. Sometimes, they went alone as part of their date night, other times they took Lilly. She didn't want to do anything else but dance. She was always lively whenever some upbeat song played on the radio.

Then in the sixth grade, she was really up for some tests--and they weren't just those few pieces of paper of questions and problems she hoped she'd studied for as much as she could. And that she could remember without being tempted to look at her notes. Sixth grade, the time in a child's life where they have different classes. Every hour or so, that time to transition between classes. 

Be there on time, all the principals, counselors, and teachers had advised during orientation. If she hadn't heard it once, she must've heard it a thousand times. She just couldn't see how she could be at every class on time. What if she was late? She remembered all too well all those people at school saying she'll get a tardy, a time in detention for being even one minute late.

The worst class she was in was science. The teacher was a lot older than the rest. Her policy was if the students weren't in their seats by the time the bell rang, they'd be considered late. One day, Lilly's locker was jammed. She broke into a cold sweat as she tried so many times to open her locker, her pulse racing as the students strode to their classes.

The tardy bell rang--and she was still at her locker. The hallways were empty. The teachers got their classes started. Papers rustled, some conversations between the kids. 

She just had to own up to the fact that Mrs. Hanson was strict and she had to be in detention.

Sometime later, Lilly really got the bug to dance. Apparently, the weekly lessons and rehearsals weren't enough. Renee, her teacher, approached her and her parents after rehearsal on afternoon.

"Lilly, I love your passion and enthusiasm in each move you made in every dance you've been in. We're considering you for the advanced class." She handed her parents some forms to fill out and read. "Please look over this and see if you think Lilly is fit for this." She turned to Lilly. "Lilly, you need to be on time for every rehearsal. If you're late to even one, you'll no longer be considered for it."

"Okay. I'll do my best." Of course, she knew she was at the mercy of her parents' full schedule and the increased Interstate traffic. Her parents always complained about it as they made dinner together. 

After some lengthy discussions, her parents approved of this dance class. Lilly was ready every day after school. She soon discovered how much work she needed to put into these rehearsals. It was soon challenging to keep her grades up. She also learned what she missed out on. Her friends, whom she never saw anymore. Couldn't even go to her best friend's spelling bee. She also missed her older cousin's bridal shower.

A few months after so many hours of rigorous training, and a horrible day in traffic, she ended up 8 minutes late to a rehearsal. Nonetheless, she dashed into the room. As she did so, the music radiated through the hallway, as if it teased her into thinking she was never going to be able to do this again. She walked in. Everyone was so wrapped up in the dancing. One of the other instructors standing at the doorway pointed toward the hallway. Lilly knew what she was going to say.

"I'm sorry, Lilly. You came late today. We can't have you on our dance team anymore. You can wait here until your parents pick you up." She pointed in the direction of the front entrance, where some chairs were.