I don’t write to be famous, I don’t write to be known, I write because I am and I want to be read. How sad to fill a room with paintings no one sees or play music no one hears. Writing is talking without sound, singing without score and dancing without movement and yet, it is all of them. It is a solitary art conjured from thought and expressed by the need to communicate.

HEAD SLAPS, SPEED BUMPS and LIGHTBULBS, one woman's WTF, oops and ah-ha moments of life.

They were published once, and as every writer knows, once is not enough.

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Today was the day she died

I am in the midst of cleaning out my attic, see previous post. While I have been traversing the years up there I have come across memories so precious they take my breath away. From yearbooks to baby books, antiques to silly collectibles I have found my past and it is me. 

Once we die everything ends up in somebody else's yard sale. Well my shit is ending up in mine.

This lifetime archeological dig turned up something that never belonged to me. Something I never worked on and only glanced at once, many years ago. It was in a little black suitcase that looks more like an old record player case; my mother's manuscript.

She asked me to read it. I started but never finished. At the time I didn't think it was very good, at the time I wasn't very good, so what did I know. 

I am older now, than she was when she finished her book. How heartbreaking that I never gave it back and never discussed it with her. When I think about the anticipation we feel when someone reads our stuff, I can just imagine how much my silence must have hurt.

Today is the day she died, Easter Sunday, eight years ago; today is the day she is discovered.

I will read and post about it; standby. 
I open the black case. It was a make-up case because there is a mirror on the inside of the cover. My image is blurred by old silver backed glass.

There is a sticky note on page one, I had written; “book should start on page seven.”
Page seven; this is the sentence I thought she should start with.

“Life was never the same for Tobias after Carries death.”

To be continued.


  1. OMG. I never knew your mom wrote as well. Good lord maybe she will be published post mortem.

  2. I just got home from work and here I am staring at the little black case which is filled with her manuscript which is at least 3 inches thick. Wouldn't it be something if she finally got published. It would be like my mom to get her book published before me.

    My dad wrote a book also, a science fiction story which was awesome, I loved the concept, it was very exciting. I'm nor sure if he ever finished his, all I know is that HIS story was awesome.

    My moms, I haven't a clue. It doesn't even have a title page. I have no idea what she called it. For now I'll call it Mom's novel and I think I'll start from the beginning and blog about what I discover. She had a tendency to overwrite, so if I can get past that to the story maybe, just maybe her dream of being published...who knows.

    Off to read Mom's novel. I'm already feeling a little emotional about this. But I'll be honest and I will share.

  3. I hope you do share with me. This I find truly exciting on so many levels Carolynn. Could it be another "fate" thing? The key finally fitting in the whole? I wonder.

  4. This breaks. my. heart. I don't even know what to say.

    1. I think I was a good daughter. I certainly wasn't perfect and neither was she but it breaks my heart too. How could I not have read it?
      Thanks for stopping by Averil, it means the world to me.

  5. Wow! What a treasure. I've started saving bits and pieces with my mother's writing -no- not like poetry (although she did write some of that - but not any more) I mean her actual handwriting. I realized one day I had nothing, and that one day I'd want it. You must cherish her work b/c it's actually her brain at work, an intimate piece of her and you hold it in your hands.

    1. Donna you are so right, it's her. And the best part, the story is great, so far. The writing certainly needs some heavy duty editing but I can't help but think that if I had read it when she gave it to me, there were enough years ahead for her to have made it shine. For me, now, it sparkles anyway.

  6. This in incredible. In so many ways. Wow.
    My mom would have loved to have been a writer, too. She imagined writing a mystery, a la Agatha Christie. Somewhere in my attic there is an outline she wrote. The things we leave behind...this is what intrigues me.


    1. Hey mac, it is incredible isn't it. Each night I read a little. I'm learning to look past the actual writing and see the woman who sat at her typewriter, imagining another world in which to immerse herself. I feel like I'm in the room with her, me reading and she plunking away. In a way her dream is becoming mine.
      Thanks for stopping by. Now go find that outline and make it yours.