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Wednesday, November 05, 2014


I'm finding that, most of the time, a deep detachment from this book is necessary at the end of the day.  I realize this is a luxury for me as the writer of this book.  The survivors of this crime may not be able to have this relief.  Still, in order to honor Asha with this writing, I must maintain excellent physical, mental, and emotional health.  I have lived through many of the things she endured, except for the worst, last thing, and I came very close to that fate myself more than once.  I am never far away in my thoughts from her; I am, for at least a small amount of the day, immersed in what she must have gone through and in the courage and determination she showed during her pregnancy.  I am saddened at the waste of two beautiful lives, the scars and neverending grief of her loved ones, her friends.  Yet, at the end of the afternoon, I must close this story in a box for the day and attend to Thistle and her needs.

I look back on my life as a writer and realize that the "worst" writing I ever did was during the two years I spent with an empty nest, as empty as it ever got for me!  I don't know why.  Perhaps it is the boundaries necessary when raising a small kid--I have to work when the time is there, and put the work away when the time is not there.  Curious, and I do wonder why that is, for me.