It’s November, the month when many writers write.
I’m not working on the next book, not writing my blog, not even journal-ing every day.
In typical Cynthia fashion, I had a good stretch of days some weeks ago and was so thankful for it, I tried to do too much.
Ignored the warning signs. Committed other rampant acts of mindless-ness.
The bad pain came, then the flu. And throughout it all, the bloody nightmares whenever I slept long enough.
But pushing myself, as my therapist and journals remind me, is how I’ve come this far.
And I’m pushing again.
Twice a week now, I lead very small groups of individuals who are writing their memoirs.
None is a professional or even an experienced writer. But they are bright, interesting, mature people.
Some of their stories are painful to write, I know. But what a joy for…