Grief and a Writer's Block

At the end of August, my Father was diagnosed with incurable liver cancer. On November 2nd, he died.

I haven't been able to write anything since.

Oh, I've written reviews and snippets of news stories. I've rewritten ten pages of a novel, but I can't bring myself to focus. Everything is dormant now.

My resistance is based on the idea that to continue on with life would be disrespectful to my Father. But it is a block that makes no sense. He put me through college, bought me a Writer's Market before I moved to New York City. Every time I spoke with him, he'd ask, "Have you submitted your work lately?"

Continuing to write would honor him. Yet, I can't do it.

"Making stories up" in any form - plays or books - requires writers to pull the lid off their emotional lives. I am forced to feel things that, in reality, don't exist. Maybe the extra emotional baggage is too heavy right now.

When I found out that he had cancer, I made a promise to myself and him that I would be present for him. All of me, including my emotional life. Subconsciously, I knew my time with him was limited. Each conversation, including the last one, needed to be remembered.

In his final days, I imagined what it would be like to be him. How would I feel about my life? What would I remember? What was important? Would I have a sense that I was going somewhere? Would anyone be there to comfort me?

At the end, what would I have to say about my life?

I don't know.

I aged more from his death than from any other event in my life. In the meantime, I try to provide comfort for my Mother, who is suddenly interested in talking about the details of own death; where she will be buried and how. She's not that old, I say to myself. I'm not that old. Still, I notice wrinkles on my face, or how easy it is for my Mother to fall asleep in her reclining chair. Just like her Mother before her.

"I'm her now," my Mother says. "I just didn't think it would happen so soon."

For me, writing has been a refuge, a safe way to release words that needed to see light. Words are energy. Creation matters.

My Father is dead, and I've been afraid to tell you how that feels.

Comments

[Adam]

Hang in there. The writing comes when the writing comes. I'm sorry for your loss.

[Scott Walters]

Laura -- My mother died of liver cancer when I was 19, so I can understand what you have been through. I don't know how long you had between diagnosis -- my mother had six months, during which I dropped out of college to come home. She was 42. For the next 23 years, I had it in my head that I wouldn't live past my 42nd year. So the year 2000 was a tense one for more than the Y2K panic.

Perhaps both your mother and you are healing, both falling asleep in your own way. You'll wake. Your father needs your words to add meaning to his life.

[Joshua James]

Whatever you wish to tell or share, it's an honor to be able to listen and read your work.