Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about death and dying.
Mostly it’s because I’m starting a new romance novel that features a character who is a death doula (cue the jokes and the confusion about writing a romance novel around death, haha!). But I suppose it’s also because I’m in the latter half of my own life now and have elderly parents and in-laws, and so it seems like the right time to delve into this great and final mystery. Plus, I like to challenge my writer’s self with unusual topics.
There is another reason, too. Frankly, I’m a bit haunted.
A former colleague and friend died more than three years ago after a very sudden and short terminal cancer diagnosis. He was only in his early 50s, with two teenagers at home and a wife who was battling her own health issues. He didn’t want to go, understandably so. In the short time he had remaining after his diagnosis, he could not come to terms with his own dying. He became depressed. He cheated himself out of talking about it, of comforting his family, of allowing himself to be comforted, and of coming to some kind of peace with how his life was going to end. Things progressed so quickly, that my goodbye had to be in the form of an email that was read out loud to him. Read more
How do you take an eight by ten foot room above an unheated garage, still holding the remnants of a boy growing into a young man, and turn it into a writing oasis? With spider webs, discarded nerf bullets, spilled chocolate milk curdled into the hardwood and holes punched in the dry wall from baseballs, hockey sticks and frustrated elbow jabs, this room was far from my imagined writer’s nook.
