Authors usually fall into two categories: those who love editing, and those who prefer root canals. For me, editing is one of the most creative aspects of the writing process. Editing allows the author a moment of separation where they place their work in the hands of a professional; someone who – ideally – does not work for them, but instead, works for the characters and the love of a well-written story.
Your job, as the author, is to trust your editor. Your job is to deliver the manuscript and walk away. Your job during this separation time is to develop a marketing plan. While your editor works, build a platform and a PR machine.
Here are two harsh truths: if you do not edit your book, it will contain embarrassing errors. If you do not edit your book, do NOT release your book.
Releasing a book without adequate editing is a recipe for financial and professional disaster. As my grandpa said, “All you’ve got is your good name.”
Last week a colleague asked, “How do you know when to postpone a book release?”
My response: “You knew the answer in your heart before you asked.”
We live in a time where big name self-publishing companies charge for edits as part of a “shopping cart service.” An author must ask these questions, will I form a relationship with my editor, or am I just a number? Is my shopping cart editor investing time in my manuscript, or merely reading words on a page?
I have relationships with my clients because I believe in their work. I do not accept every submission; to do so devalues your work, and mine. Unlike major self-publishing giants like Create Space, I care about the success of your book. Create Space charges $ 210 for an edit of 10,000 words which is roughly 45 double-spaced pages, or $4.78 cents a page. Does anyone think the staff at Create Space reads, edits, and then re-reads any manuscript? No. Mega self-publishing companies such as the now-defunct Tate Publishing require(d) their editors to review a certain number of pages every day. No re-read. Just a quick read and on to the next client.
By comparison, I charge $ 2.00 a page, I invest time in your manuscript. I know your name.
Self-publishing companies don’t give a Tinker’s Toenail if you sell a single copy. They make their profit, from you, upfront. If you sell a thousand copies . . . well, they call that gravy.
Yet every single day authors intent on self-publishing fight an inner voice urging them to hire an editor. They know they should invest in their manuscript which is why they ask relatives to read their work (who all pronounce it the next bestseller, or simply smile, nod politely and say it’s good). As I have stated in numerous workshops, there is a difference between a reader and an editor.
Ultimately, most self-published authors possess a strong independent spirit which benefits them when selling their book. This same spirit harms an author who releases an unpolished book. Independent spirits feel they must do things “their way.” Sadly, I have watched many authors deeply regret this attitude. They didn’t listen to my advice and when they email me with their regrets it is too late.
Many self-published authors overlook an important part of the publication puzzle. Answer these questions: Does my reputation matter? Is seeing my name in print more important than accurate, error-free content? Will I regret rushing this title?
Dear One, the book you release has nothing to do with you . . . nothing. You write for the story, and for the person who reads your story. If you are writing for personal gratification mosey down to Kinkos and print ten copies. Keep one and give the rest to family. Trust me, today’s readers are weary of error-laden books!
Your readers deserve the best book possible, anything less dilutes the beauty of writing and damages your name, especially if you plan on releasing other titles. Here’s another question you must answer: Have I done everything possible to polish and perfect my manuscript, or have I taken the easy path and overlooked mistakes so I can hold my self-published book?
Only you know the answer.
Renea is an award-winning author, blogger, and Georgia Writers Group Board Member. She has belonged to a phenomenal critique group for over a decade. She is a passionate friend of SIBA and local independent booksellers throughout the South. Renea is vested in the writing community of North Carolina and Georgia and has judged multiple writing competitions. Every client she has accepted has enjoyed the pleasure of publication either traditionally, or via self-publication. Contact her here.
During the past year, I felt like I have been standing in quicksand, eager to free myself, to break free, but unable to do so. I bet many of you feel the same way.
There is too much . . . just too much going on in our lives, and in this world, for us to process.
Too much hatred
Too much anger
Too much bitterness
Too much fear
Too much work
Too much strife
Too much debt
Too much killing.
And there is too little:
Many readers know that I do not have television. I am happy about this, ecstatic actually. Yes I am on Facebook, too much, but I do not watch videos of beatings, killings, or terrorists slaughtering innocents. We are commanded to guard our heart, and violent images deposited into my heart quickly harms my soul. Be careful little eyes what you see, because once seen we cannot un-see.
Friends, I do not have the answer to why this is happening, but I do know this. . . Jesus is coming, and soon. I am helpless to change any of the violence and I know myself well enough to realize that if I had television I would plug in and watch, helpless, and pretty soon negativity, bitterness and hopelessness would creep into my soul.
This I will not allow.
I do not watch, nor do I share images or video links of violence on Facebook, nor do I tweet popular hashtags (although I will use them in this blog post for emphasis).
Social media is not activism.
Unless you are posting live as you march through the streets of Atlanta for change, social media is the safe (and lazy) way most folk use to puke their opinion, then sit back and feel better while friends comment, or agree by pressing the word LIKE.
We have become a lackadaisical – yet fearful- group of souls, and once afraid we withdraw when what we really should do is release our fear and go forth bravely.
Yes. Bravely. Unplug and do something.
But I changed my Facebook photo to the color of the French flag, you say.
Not to be harsh but no one cares.
Be The Change means do something.
Something. . . anything other than Like another post.
No, I don’t expect you to stop terrorists, but I do expect you to stop posting on Facebook all day. I do expect you to get up out of your chair and give.
Use words if necessary.
Use money if necessary.
Hundreds of small businesses are struggling. Support them. #BuyLocal shouldn’t be just another hashtag slogan. Buy Local falls into the Love Thy Neighbor category. Don’t feel sorry when a small business in your community closes if you have done nothing to help them keep the doors open!
This includes authors and artists who are barely getting by.
Recently I saw an author’s selfie. She was standing in a room of empty chairs. No one had attended her reading (this happens often, has happened to me).
She could have lied. She could have said, “Great event today.”
But she was honest.
She was real. She posted a photo of the empty room and said, “No one came.”
She displayed her fear to us and in doing so she claimed dominion over it. Afterward many commented they had purchased her books. Buy the book of a #lesserknownauthor, read it, and then give it away. Or better yet, purchase two copies, one to keep and one to give away.
Children are hungry. Summer is a time when many children do not receive adequate nourishment. Find a church making lunches during Bible school activities. Buy a loaf of bread, or better yet, volunteer to pack lunches. School supplies are also needed. Seek out the poorest school near you and buy supplies.
Our elderly are in crisis. If you are concerned about the future, imagine how the elderly feel. They are scared . . . petrified.
Open your eyes.
Let them teach you how to love (they are experts).
Go to any Kroger or other grocery store on Wednesday, which is usually senior citizen’s day. Watch. Look. Help. The need is great and you, yes you, are powerful.
You ARE The Hope someone has been praying for. Don’t you realize that?
Buy gift cards.
Keep them in your wallet.
Give them away.
To the cashier.
To the waitress.
To anyone you meet over the age of 60.
This is what it means to BeTheChange. You may think a ten dollar gift card won’t make a difference, but I promise you it will.
Take your children. Make this an adventure. Make it a game. “Let’s see who we can help today.”
You can do this. I believe in you.
I believe in us.
Let’s teach our children to be givers.
Let’s face it, you know someone who is struggling . . . we all do.
Someone facing job loss.
Someone with a broken family.
You know where they live. Yes, you.
Step outside of your personal circumstance. Send them a card for Pete’s sake. Include a gift card. Order a pizza delivered to their house (how easy is that?). Send flowers. Hide surprises in their mailbox. Cut their grass while they are at work or at the doctor then slip on back home and act surprised when they tell you about it.
This week I send you out on a mission. For this mission you need two things: Twenty Dollars and courage. That is my challenge. Take twenty dollars and give it away. Of course you can split it into two tens and double the blessings, of course you can give more if your budget allows. Today, after reading this blog, unplug from the fear and hatemongers and the incessant negative noise. Go forth and be a blessing. Then later, mosey on back and share your story. Inspire others. You have shared the bad news in the world on Facebook and Twitter, go now share something good. Share this post. Share your story. I have a sneaking suspicion that during the process of being a blessing it is you who will also be blessed.
Let us boldly fight fear with love. Because as the hashtag says, #LoveWins. Love always wins.
Renea Winchester is an award-winning author of three non-fiction books and a collection of short stories. You can order, or download her work here.
The Red Clay Writing Conference has come to a close, bringing with it, a renewed excitement both for myself and workshop participants who seek publication. If you’re an aspiring author, workshops such as those offered at Red Clay is crucial to educating writers about the craft. Conferences provide accurate information presented by veteran authors, and also provide the perfect opportunity to form friendships with other authors.
Over a decade ago I attended my first writing conference: The Blue Ridge Writing Conference, which I believe was instrumental in launching my writing career. At Blue Ridge I met Terry Kay who said, while signing the books I purchased, “You’re a writer, and if you want to be successful, do as I have suggested.”
I nodded. Wiped tears from my eyes, and left determined to do exactly as The Legendary Terry Kayinstructed. It is a terrible mistake to disregard the advice of successful author. Those who set out to do things “their way,” eventually learn a valuable lesson about publishing: everyone is writing a book. Only those who polish their product, and act in an honest-professional manner, succeed.
A decade later, with the help of critique colleagues I met at the Atlanta Writers Club, I have achieved many writing goals and been blessed beyond belief with publication, a reader following, and dear friendships.
This year Red Clay featured Carol Crawford, Blue Ridge Writing Conference Coordinator. Carol is the same lady who had a dream of connecting writers. She created the Blue Ridge Conference, and played a part in launching the careers of many authors, including mine.
That is the magical part of being an author; we are all connected. After I thanked Carol for establishing the Blue Ridge Writing Conference I reflected, and realized that truly great authors have one thing in common and it isn’t the number of books they sell. Great authors possess a generous spirit when it comes to helping others.
At Red Clay I met emerging talent who, with time and hard work, will achieve their dream of publication. I also met some who had placed their trust in the wrong people, hiring writing coaches and editors who had no previous publication experience!
Dear Ones, please, I beg you, do not trust your manuscript to someone who doesn’t have publishing experience. It isn’t possible for someone to advise you about the publishing process if they haven’t penned a manuscript.
With that said I am announcing a new venture as a writing coach. After speaking to my colleagues I realized that I served as a writing coach for many years. My workshops already include tips about the pathway to publication. My services as a writing coach will include concept critiques of your work, with light editing if necessary.
My schedule is already filling up. In fact, several Red Clay participants have hired me. Before you query and agent, before you submit a manuscript, before you type “The End” you should strongly consider my services.
Your manuscript deserves to be read by a professional.
I can feel my temperature rising, like lava bubbling up from within, but – thus far– I remain victorious in this battle to finish my winter duties. My winter duties have been intense: purging, purging, and after that, more purging. However, spring fever has set in with my dad and when he drops subtle hints such as, “where are my seeds?” my duties take a backseat.
The Winchester Family Farm believes in hoarding, I mean collecting, seeds. As shown in this picture, even when cancer was devouring my mother’s strength, she invested time and energy into saving seeds from the garden. Momma even jotted down a note about the longevity of the tomatoes. Bless her..
But 2016 is a new year, another motherless year, one in which Dad and I are broadening our horizons. This year we will order, as usual, from Botanical Interest Seeds, but we are also ordering from Sow True Seed.
This year Sow True Seed has pledged 25% of all sales to my little hometown library in Bryson City, North Carolina. If you’ve enjoyed a ride on the Great Smoky Mountains Railroad, you have been in my hometown. And if you enjoyed your stay in my little hometown I kindly ask you to consider purchasing a package or two of seeds, be they tomato, cucumber, or sunflowers. You can plant them in your own garden or donate them back to the library (or send them to me and I’ll deliver them). I can’t think of a better way to spread a little love and simultaneously plant the seed of literacy.
Here’s how it works. Visit Sow True Seed’s website, and when ordering use the code MBL2016 (for Marianna Black Library). You must use the code.Remember last year when I sold daffodils to help a needy family? This is the same concept, only this time we’re buying books and building a library. And since I believe in my readers and their generosity, I challenge everyone reading this to purchase at least two packets of seeds. Every bit counts.
This fall I released Walking in the Rain: A Short Story about a Sacred Place. For those who have been waiting for me to write about my home-town mountains, this short story takes you back to a place my people once called home. Long before the book Bryson City Tales and Kephart’s Our Southern Highlanders, my family called the Great Smoky Mountains home. When this world starts getting me down I retreat to this place, to an area locals would call the “way back,” and then I sit, and I wait, and I allow myself to be absolutely still.
If you haven’t been absolutely still in a while I highly recommend you take a trip to the “way back.” If a road trip isn’t possible, please consider reading Walking in the Rain.
For those who have asked, will Farming, Friends, & Fried Bologna Sandwiches be released as an e-book? I regret that Mercer University Press still says no. They do not typically convert non-fiction books into electronic format. No worries, Farmer Billy still has copies on Hardscrabble Road, and I have about eight copies at home. Of course, all bookstores can still order copies for you, and readers can contact Mercer University Press directly to order. All of my other work is available electronically.
That’s an easy question. I have my eyes on a large patch of daffodils that are directly in the path of an evil dozer. I’ll be digging if you need me. I can feel the fever about to bubble over. After all, a gardener must do what a gardener does and that’s get those hands dirty.
With sincere fondness and appreciation,
Renea Winchester is the award-winning author of Farming, Friends and Fried Bologna Sandwiches. She is passionate about heritage seeds, and saving daffodils. When she isn’t digging in the dirt she is hoarding canning jars and reading good books.
Today’s post is a lesson in friendship, a reminder that we are all connected. It’s also a window into the world of a writer and how book events aren’t glamorous; sometimes they turn downright ugly. My friend Amber is going to introduce herself in a moment. If you subscribe to my newsletter you’ll remember me talking about her book. For those who don’t receive my newsletters, Amber is the creative mind behind Project Keepsake. When she pauses to catch a breath, I’ll share what I was doing in NC at the exact moment she was in GA.
Amber: I rose to a familiar nip in the autumn air and dug out a wrinkled sweater from the bottom of my closet. I followed the winding country roads to Goodlet Farm near Rock Spring, Georgia and admired the contrast between the rolling green fields and cerulean blue sky along the way.
I love fall festivals and country fairs, and I was looking forward to participating in the first-ever Goodlet Farm Festival—a fundraiser designed to raise awareness and funds for breast cancer research. Festival organizers directed me to the Author’s Barn, where other regional authors and poets had congregated behind tables showcasing their books and promotional items. I sat down at a table with an acquaintance I had not seen in a few years and started unpacking copies of Project Keepsake. I placed a large bowl of buckeyes in front, then settled into my chair and waited for potential readers to sashay by.
Project Keepsake is a collection of stories by several different writers about the histories and memories associated with keepsakes—a quilt, a pocket knife, a cake pan, an heirloom sewing machine, etc. I coordinated the project, wrote two of the stories in the collection, and led the effort to find a publisher. The first story in the collection is “Herman’s Brown Buckeyes” — a story about my father and our relationship.
During my childhood, my dad gave me dozens of buckeyes he had retrieved from the woods. He always followed the gesture by saying, “Keep it. It’ll bring you good luck.” And so buckeyes remind me of my father and his lifelong love of the great outdoors—hunting, fishing, sitting by a glowing campfire, and roaming the backwoods of Georgia on foot.
During book events, I often bring a large bowl of buckeyes to give to passersby. The smooth brown nuggets tie into my book, but they also prompt interesting conversations. Many people respond to the buckeyes and share memories with me from their own lives, and I treasure that connection.
Renea:Many Southerners and hill-folk alike can recollect with great detail the moment a smooth buckeye was placed in their palm. For you see, a buckeye is just the right size for every hand, because it carries with it a bit of magic. Sometimes buckeye’s come on a whisper, a bent low-lips-to-the-ear moment when someone believes you are special enough to receive the gift. Other times buckeye’s come as a reminder that we all need a little bit of luck.
Buckeye’s trigger memories of special people which is why, upon receipt we are entrusted with the duty to share buckeyes with others. Buckeye’s slide effortlessly into pockets where your finger and thumb caress them for good luck and perhaps even remember that the One who created the Buckeye tree also created us.
Amber:And so it was on that beautiful fall morning at Goodlet Farm that I painted on a warm smile, handed out buckeyes, and sold three books in the first hour as the writing acquaintance seated next to me sat idle. I felt badly for her. During a lull, I reached into my cache and found the largest buckeye in the bowl. I handed it her way and said, “Here. Take a buckeye, my friend. It’ll bring you good luck.”
But instead of receiving my gift, she held her had upright and said, “No. No thanks.”
I offered again. “Come on. Take it. You never know—it may make all the difference.”
And that’s when she leaned toward me, looked me dead in the eye, and said, “I don’t need your good luck. Jesus is my good luck.”
She seemed agitated. No, she seemed kind of angry.
Stunned by her response, I sat motionless for about ten seconds, then finally uttered, “Jesus doesn’t care if you put a buckeye in your pocket. It’s just a fun Southern thing.”
She held firm in her rejection, and I realized she had misconstrued my gesture.
It had never occurred to me that someone might think I was pushing some sort of witchcraft on them through my offering of a buckeye. Indeed, I’ve never actually believed that good fortune was bound to a buckeye. I find them nostalgic, as do so many other folks.
Not having enough good sense that day to move on, I reached over and placed my buckeye on her stack of books. Yes, I realize that it was a juvenile response, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.
She wasn’t happy with me and promptly removed it.
Like moving a chess piece into a check mate position, I put it back over on her side of the table, allowing it to make a heavy striking sound.
She was fuming. On the outside, I seemed pushy and bold, but inside, I was confused and hurt.
Renea: Dad and I have been building a goat fence. This little project, which should have taken a week, has lingered incomplete for almost three months. I’m not going to push him, but it is getting cold and the days are growing short. I’d like to look out my window and see a couple goats, before the snow is piled head high to a giraffe, but I digress.
My daughter decided to help which makes me smile. Grandparents are our most valuable treasure and time with them is time well spent. When Winchesters launch into project mode we do so in style. Jamie, Dad and I each tied an apron stitched by Rita, who made the apron from articles of my Mother’s clothing. We now carry a piece of Momma with us in our hearts, but we also keep her close. After filling the apron pockets with nails, wire, and tools we got to work.
Amber: A half and hour after the buckeye incident, civility returned to our table and we actually exchanged a few book publishing and promotion ideas with one another. I’m thankful for that.
Just after noon, each author was invited to read a few pages from his or her book at a lectern positioned in front of tables filled with people devouring barbecue. As my time slot approached, I flipped through the pages of Project Keepsake and landed on one of my favorite stories, “Uncle James’ Pocket Knife,” penned by my friend and fellow writer, Renea Winchester. Her story embodies the essence of the project—that the items we keep hold deep, powerful memories.
I stepped up to the mic and addressed the crowd. “Today, I’ve chosen to read a friend’s story, because I miss her, and I wish she were here with us today,” I said, and then I began reading.
“A memory keeper collects, gathers, plucks important items and hides them in safe places. Sometimes a memory keeper displays mementoes for all to see. Sometimes memory keepers listen, hoard and stack-up stories waiting for the right moment to share them with anyone who shows a hint of interest.”
As I read Renea’s words, I could see her life playing out in my mind—her selecting the knife that bore her uncle’s fingerprints. The audience clapped at the end, and I walked back to my table and my somewhat disgruntled table mate, all the while wondering where Renea Winchester was, how she was feeling, and what she was doing. I made a mental note to tell her I read her story to festivalgoers and that another author had been mean to me—rejecting my kind offering of a buckeye. I knew Renea would understand my frustration and melancholy.
Renea: While Dad and Jamie worked on the fence, I eased into the woods and began picking up sticks. The place has become a haven for briars, brambles and fallen limbs. It is difficult to mourn the loss of a parent and keep up with property maintenance. I bent double and parted the saw-briars, then carefully made my way to the area where limbs were twisted in a pile. I’ve got plans for this place, grandiose ones that – like most of my plans- rarely end like I envision. All I need is time and a chainsaw. By the way, I always need a chainsaw.
Angry at myself for letting the hayfield go to seed, I pulled and tugged, tossed, and flung, and began expressing my strong displeasure for briars and brambles. The more I tossed the more I missed my mom, my friends and my old life. Then something lovely caught my eye. . . a buckeye, half-buried in the forest floor.
All work stopped.
I picked up the nut and immediately looked heavenward. Now I don’t claim to be a botanist, but I do know that buckeye trees look like, well. . . buckeye trees. The nuts they drop are encapsulated in either prickly balls, or soft leathery balls. Scouring the forest floor, I could find neither. It appeared that this buckeye had been tossed down from heaven just for me. This wasn’t a small nut, this was the biggest buckeye in the whole wide world !!! I snapped a photo and immediately thought of Amber. She’s the Amber Appleseed of the Buckeye family. If you’ve met her, odds are, she’s placed a buckeye in your hand. Many people know that I rescue flowers from development. That is who I am . . . it is what I do. Sharing buckeyes with folk is who Amber is . . . it’s what she does.
Amber: My table mate left early, and I continued to hand out free buckeyes to people who paused at my table. An elderly lady ambled by putting much of her weight on a walking stick. I held out a buckeye to her, and she automatically lifted her hand to receive it. She opened her shaky, wrinkled hand, smiled, and said, “Ha! My daddy used to give these to me.”
She paused as if she had slipped into a deep memory, then cleared her throat.
“He used to tell me they’d bring me good luck. I haven’t seen a buckeye in years. Did you find this in the woods?”
“No,” I said. “I ordered these from the Internet. But I’ve found a few buckeyes in my lifetime, and it is a magical moment—like finding an arrowhead or a secret garden.”
The woman beamed and nodded. “Yes, it is, isn’t it? Magical.”
And just like that, I made a new friend. We connected over a buckeye—a buckeye—just as my father and I connected over buckeyes in all of the years preceding his death in 1992.
Renea:Exiting the bramble pile, I hid my find behind my back and said, “Guess what I found?” Presenting the prize to my dad, for a moment I was back on Bett’s Branch standing atop the mountain rolling timber down the holler. For one moment I was ten years old and my Mom was still alive.
As Dad and I smiled, my daughter didn’t quite understand, being from the newer generation that must Google Buckeyes to learn of their importance. Dad placed the shiny nut in his leathery hand and said, “You know what this means?”
I certainly did. It meant I was tasked with the responsibility of finding someone worthy of the buckeye’s magic.
Amber: I closed shop and drove home with my mind awhirl with the events of the day. After I returned home, I checked Facebook, and that’s when I saw it. Renea Winchester had placed a photo of a big, brilliant buckeye on my Facebook wall with a message—“I’m thinking of you and feeling like the luckiest girl in the world #lookwhatIfound #itsabigone.” It was glorious—simply glorious.
The coincidences amused me. Even though we were in different states, I was thinking of Renea Winchester about the same time she was thinking of me. It must be a magical buckeye bond.
I helped Dad and Jamie position a couple goat-fence panels (the fence still isn’t finished), then Dad and I searched for another buckeye, or the tree from which it fell. Finding neither, we both smiled understanding the magic of the buckeye.
Amber and I would love to hear your magical buckeye stories. Please do share them with us.
Yesterday my dad asked, “You know what tomorrow is?”
I needed no reminder. Not even the Christmas Cactus that decided to unfurl on the anniversary of Mom’s passing. I knew to the minute the moment Mother drew her last breath.
One year ago, the morning began as any other: alarm sounding, daughter getting ready for school, morning duties.
Then the text from my brother: Mother is in the hospital.
She shouldn’t have been in the hospital. I had just left her. Dirty clothes piled beside the machine were a testament of my late-night return to Georgia from North Carolina.
Besides, Hospice was under strict orders to contact me first if something happened, because I had a 4 hour drive to get to her. They hadn’t called.
After speaking to the hospice nurse I determined it was drop and go time. I placed my daughter in the car, fake smile pasted to my face, and took her to school. Then I hit the emergency flashers and drove as fast as humanly possible -never at a safe speed- with one hand on my lights, blinking them at anyone ahead of me. I was thankful for my fast car, having no way of knowing that two weeks later an impatient driver would hit me, total the car, and alter my life-path.
We never know our future: remember that because it is important.
The nurse called while I was en route: “We’re upping her oxygen, hoping to hold her until you get here.”
“Don’t.” I pleaded. “She’s ready to go. Please, please don’t hold her here.”
They didn’t listen.
Mother wasn’t conscious when I arrived. But she heard me when I said, “Momma, Jesus picked a beautiful day to come get you.”
Those were my first words to her.
She heard everything that was said: remember that because it is important.
Patients hear everything said over their bed. Everything.
And so I stood, for hours begging (silently) for Jesus to come take my mother. When I asked the nurse what happened, their response was, “she spiked a temperature.”
Mother never regained consciousness but she was very much aware of who was in the room. I know this because she waited until my brother left the room to draw her last breath. My mother: protective of her son until the last breath. It is the firstborn’s duty to watch their mother suffer.
She was also listening when I bent low so only she could hear me and uttered the most painful words I have ever spoken, “It’s ok to go. . . just let go.”
It was not ok for her to go, not really; but when it is a matter of death, a daughter bend over and whisper go, must lie and tell her it’s ok.
I will not share how difficult it is to watch someone die, to hear someone die, to be with someone who is in the laborious and lengthy process of dying and have that memory flash in your mind a million times over; I will however share my brother’s wisdom: Everyone will be here one day.
And now a year has passed.
Those will calloused hearts, or those who are lucky that death hasn’t taken a loved one, or are tone-deaf to death rattles, believe that one year is a long time. Listen to me when I tell you that for a daughter who never had the relationship she needed one day is a blink.