It seems to me that I made an important decision for myself without knowing I did it. Looking back at this past month in my book-writing process — or rather at my non-writing process — I am coming to the conclusion tonight that I am done with my first rough draft of my first book. This comes as a surprise to me. I was evidently done a month ago and didn’t know it. Tonight I know it.
I understand what the ‘stopping’ I wrote about in recent posts was about. That is what happens when the end of a book is reached. The story stops. It stops wherever it stops. “Duh, Linda!”
So, this book ends where I quit writing. I have tried to inch my way forward over these past weeks, but that is ALL I have accomplished — a few more inches. The book almost stops when I was 10 and was forced by my mother’s intensified abuse to run away from her. The book actually stops a few hours after I ran away and was forced to go back home. I had nowhere else to go.
Certainly the whole story of my life at home being abused by Mother lasted another eight years without reprieve, but I realize now that my first book truly is about my childhood — about my life as a child. After the age of ten, as I pass my eleventh birthday and begin to move into prepuberty, then into puberty, and then into my teenage years I was no longer a child.
Those later transitions belong to another book.
Even stopping here at age 10 I now have a massive editing process to go through. But I can understand that. I can work with that. What has become very clear to me is that I cannot move forward into the later time I spent being abused by Mother without first going back and making a book out of what I have discovered about my life during the first decade I lived in this body on this planet being Linda.