I’m well aware of what happened on this day 23 years ago. I was there. Twenty-three years. Wow. That’s a lifetime for some people. For me, it’s 1/3 of my life ago. Yet it seems like yesterday. This is always a hard day. PTSD is a royal witch and add it to a dose of depression and yeah… So.
I got to thinking about my dad the other day. He taught me how to read–and to read whatever caught my fancy. I grew up on Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys, on Tom Swift and the Black Stallion books. Zane Grey, Louis L’Amour, Andre Norton, Isaac Asimov, Mary Stewart, and Ian Fleming. I was weirdly shy for an extrovert and back then we called it “being down” or “feeling blue.” Now we know it as depression and yes, kids get it too. Still, I managed to struggle through on my own, for the most part. I had my dad. He understood my crazy imagination and the lives I led in my head when no one else did. I still miss him every single day.
I found my way, just as the Universe intimates in today’s message. By hook or by crook. By sheer stubborness. By cringing under the covers living in the world of books until I could face my world.
Silver, haven’t you always found your way?
Hasn’t there always been a light in the darkness? Haven’t you always gotten back up? Haven’t there always been serendipitous surprises, unexpected twists, and triumphant comebacks? And haven’t you always had someone to love?
Coincidences? Or maybe, do you think, you, too, have always been loved?
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And Silver, what of all your dreams that have already come true?
This is why I write romance. This is why I want my characters–no matter how tortured their lives are, how many conflicts, how many bad things happen, and how the black moment leaves them so empty they don’t even have tears left. I want them to find love–to be loved and to give love and to live their Happily Ever After. Because that’s what sees us through, ya know? Love. And that’s how dreams come true. And how we find our way.