When you start your story, you don’t know what genre it’s going to be. It all depends on where the story ends. If my story ended where so many Hollywood stories do - at the wedding - it would be a romantic comedy, maybe even a fairy tale.
From our wedding. Photo by Wide Eyed Studios.
If my story ended on January 26, it would be a tragedy.
I'm 32 years old. My husband, Don, died after we'd been married just two months. He went into the hospital less than a week after we got back from our honeymoon. It's like a goddamn Danielle Steel novel so far.
But human stories are a lot longer than a movie or a book.
I'm a writer, for fun and for money. I've been writing nearly nonstop since Don died, neither for fun nor for money. I write because I simply have to. It's one of the only ways I can make any sense out of the senseless thing that's happened. If I don't write, the emotions swirl around in my head and eat at me like poison.
Some of my writings are private letters to Don. Some are brief Instagram posts. Some are more formulated thoughts on Facebook. I'm starting this blog to tell the parts of my story that might appeal to a wider audience than my personal friends, or that might be easier to digest on something other than the endless scrolling of social media.
I am irreverent sometimes. I'm highly emotional and analytical. I curse a lot. Culturally, I am Jewish, and spiritually, I'm firmly agnostic. I don't believe in hiding my feelings or putting on a brave face unless absolutely necessary.
I’ll end this introduction with the text of Don’s final Facebook post, written on January 1, 2019.
“A happy New Year! Grant that I may bring no tear to any eye when this New Year in time shall end. Let it be said I've played the friend, have lived and loved and labored here, and made of it a happy year. - E. Guest”
Poetic. Prophetic. So fucking Don.
PS: As a writer, I love to hear what you think about what I've written. Unless it's negative feedback. Then keep that shit to yourself.
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