It Only Takes a Moment

Altar by my friend Rahdne, sending prayers for my healing.

Well, I didn't see that coming.

Halloween night, I had four published anthologies on my shelf with stories I wrote in them, two more acceptance letters for other anthologies, and a string of submissions out. I had finally found my momentum after two years of hard work. The rhythm of my work felt right and I was excited about what the next year would offer.

By midnight that night, I was being airlifted to Syracuse Upstate Hospital's burn unit. It was a freak no-fault accident. I had multiple graft surgeries to harvest and replace skin to my damaged legs and hand. I was transferred to rehab to relearn things like walking and washing myself.

I spent Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years in the care of an amazing group of doctors and nurses. I mostly kept my chin up, looking ahead to what needed to happen next, and then next, and then next, so that I could go home. And I did. Which is a larger story that will be told.

I'm still in recovery. I have physical therapy to work my knee flex, so that I can do normal things like climb stairs, step over obstacles, and step into my tub. My grafts are healing well, but it will still be a year, they say, before this part of this journey is done.

I am grateful for my life. For the health I have, and for the care I need to get better.

But my heart hurts. Every day feels like another week off-track. I feel like all the momentum I built up with my writing is slipping away. It's just a feeling, just a worry. I am a writer. It's what I know and what I do and every day I can feel my healing fingers itching to type away. The damage to my right hand was serious enough that writing more than a couple hours a day is still difficult. So I've been taking notes and organizing projects and letting go of the stories I was working on whose submission deadlines have past.

There will be stories from me. That will never be a problem. For the time being, my personal story is the one that needs my attention. Healing muscles and tissue first. Working words and fingers second.

As 2014 tips into 2015...

I've been writing for years, finding my voice, finding footing in the stories I wanted to tell. This last year was the first that I seriously started submitting my work to strangers. Throwing myself out there is not something I do. So that is amazing. Accepting that I may not be understood or valued, and believing in myself is not something I did well in 2013. But I had to, in order to embrace the rejections that came back to me.

And yet some people liked what I had to say. And some people even sent me contracts, to share my work with others. So many steps forward, despite the push back. Every one of those steps is a beacon guiding me forward.

That's where my dream lies. It's the only path for me. I believe in fairies. I believe in Santa Claus. I believe in things I cannot see. I believe there are those out there who will feed from my stories.

May you find your passion in 2015. May you dive into what you need to do to see it through. There is only one you. Only one person in this whole world who sees what you see. I rang in the new year the way I want to live every day after... writing. Working on words. Thinking of my family. Wishing my loved ones health and happiness.

This last year has been solitude, work, loss, reunions, poverty, illness, surgery, births, love, work, success, rejection, love, and love...

May the next year be better. May my work be fruitful. May you find what you're missing. May you find it within you.


Here's a link to a separate blog post I wrote about my Great-Grandma's NYE diary.