From the Queen of Broken to King Unveiled

I was broken. Not my heart, but my mind, my spirit.

My two greatest assets, the things I’d always been able to call upon, had failed me.

The ledge of sanity loomed just overhead, a daily offering of hope, but I had no strength to reach for it, no assurance that even if I did, I could pull myself back up.

A blank stare had become my new resting face, an empty hum my thoughts’ soundtrack. It took me nearly half an hour just to load the kids in the car, trip after trip back inside to obtain object after object that I’d forgotten I forgot. This once multi-tasking maven was nothing short of a mess. Between a travelling husband, mommying three children, one of whom was special needs, and building a career, I’d forgotten one important thing.

Me.

I ran to the arms of a friend, a longtime offeror of realistic support. Holly had been in my life for over a decade, a co-worker turned bestie who knew my secrets, each intricate detail of my fears. Her response was simple. She asked two important questions. Was my life the problem? No. I loved it, was beyond thankful for everything. Then, was I? It shook me. Not the idea that I could be a problem, but that I hadn’t thought to ask. Was I okay?

Clearly, no.

But why?

My ever-present, supportive mother began pumping me full of vitamins, issuing orders of coffee and rest on rotation. It helped me cope but didn’t uncover the root of my problem. Tired-working-mom felt like a cop out for something consuming my life to such a great degree. Surely there was a way to do it all, enjoy it all, and have a functional brain. Right?

Then a beautiful thing happened. I was given a gift. Of hope. Of peace.

Of a trip.

I’d travelled for work before, nothing exotic, but I’d never vacationed. For work.

Yes, I was forced to vacation.

To breathe. To sit by the beach, to read, relax, slow down and think.

And what did I think about? Who I’d become. Who I used to be. Life before obligations had completed their welcome takeover.

It had been years since I’d read at the pace I once did, written more song lyrics, attempted to add to new lines to a book long ago laid aside.

I was sitting alone, in a quiet alcove of an outdoor patio overlooking the sparkling ocean waters of Mexico, when I decided I wanted to write again. I wanted to write about love, but not just romantic love. All types of love. And how real love didn’t possess or own, real love didn’t suffocate and hide. How real love was freedom.

I’d been so thankful to find layers of real love in my own life, but many of the books I’d been reading on my trip only showed some of them, valued extreme jealousy as ideal, offered perfect people with perfect outcomes. While most were entertaining, a few misguided, I wanted to offer a different alternative.

So I started writing and continued when I got home, my hobby breathing life back into my mind, my spirit.

Then, Holly got sick.

Well, more sick. She’d been sick for a while. Lung troubles had plagued her, and I’d watched as the light left her eyes, and her hatred grew for the ongoing fight she had to make every day just to breathe. My problems of the past felt so small, so privileged. All she wanted were a few uninterrupted hours of sleep, an assurance she’d wake up, and to spend time with her daughter. Then, in an instant, bad turned to worse, and within weeks, she was gone. One moment she was reading my newest pages, the next she was in a coma, her life on this earth at its end.

Her daughter was barely an adult, but a bastion of strength and wisdom beyond her years. I tried to be a pillar of peace, for her, for the twenty people who comprised our work family, looking to me for direction on how to handle her loss. They too had watched her waste away in front us, unable to stop the nightmare, unable to look away.

While outside I stood tall, inside, I was a mess. Again. But this time I wasn’t broken, I was determined. Determined to make something more of the life I was still able to enjoy.

I’d promised Holly I wouldn’t give up on my dream, promised her I would look after her sweet daughter, and my own, with the same honest realism she’d always offered me. So I did the only thing I could do to keep moving forward.

I wrote.

I wrote like I’d lost all sense of space and time. Feeding chapters to new friends and new supporters, new encouragers of words. And before I knew it, I was done, and faced with the next stage. What now?

I sent out submissions way before I was ready or knew how, to top agents, top publications. Most were kind, actually, supportive. Looking back, they probably assumed I was an excited teen with a serious case of exclamation point addiction, not a grieving middle-aged woman. Thankfully, I happened upon professionals who guided me, made irreplaceable writer friends, found my eyes opened wider and brighter each day. The more I began to learn, the more I realized I knew nothing, but that didn’t stop me. I spent time educating myself, sought an agent, traditional publishing routes, then last summer made the decision to be an indie author.

As in all destined relationships, when I connected with my publication editor, I knew I was on the right track for me. She understood my vision, understood what Holly had too, and those picking up my writing pieces behind her.

That a re-tell twist of the historical story of King David, could be more than just a love triangle trope. It could be about all types of love. The love that pushes you to fight for another, for yourself. The love that frees both mind and spirit.

The love . . . that had freed my own.

—

KING UNVEILED is about 18-year-old Abrianna King, who finds out that her world is entirely different than she’s always known it to be. Beneath the title of her last name and family run corporation, hides a mercenary army and medical research team she knew nothing about. Secret after family secret is uncovered all while she searches her heart for who she truly loves. Her long time boyfriend, Jon, or new crush, David. Elements of music, sweeping descriptions, heated actions scenes, and quiet romantic moments keep the reader on a pinwheel of emotions they won’t soon forget.

Tags: featured, women writers

Category: On Writing