Writing, writing, writing… wait. What am I writing? What is the point? Who am I writing this for? Why am I writing this book?
I was doing really well for several weeks, writing every moment I had in bursts of focused energy. The first section of my book finished, six lovely chapters focused on the first few years of my daughter’s life. And then…
The focus vanished. The doubts set in.
One complaint about “special needs memoirs” is how parents take over their children’s stories and make it all about them. The child is lost under the parent’s struggle. I don’t want to fall into that trap. My daughter is the one who struggles daily with her disabilities. This is her life and I am telling her story in the hope it will help others. But am I actually including her in the storytelling, or just rehashing my own fears and triumphs?
I don’t know.
So now here I am, staring at my screen and the 100 pages I’ve already written, unsure whether or not to continue. Do I stop? Start over? Keep going? Chuck the whole book and go back to writing plays? Am I able to write the book I envision? Perhaps I don’t have the skill. But I have to try.
I’ll follow my own advice and go back to that basic question: who am I writing this for?
Answer: Parents of children with disabilities.
Why am I writing it?
Answer: Because I want to help them find joy raising their children and not be overwhelmed with grief and fear.
How will I do that?
Answer: I don’t know.