I know a little bit about writing emotion that cuts deep. Most authors do. How can we not?

When I tell people I am a writer, I get the usual questions and responses:

“Have you written anything I might have read?”
“Are you published?”
“Someday, I’ll write something.”
“I wish I had time to write.”

For me, writing isn’t something I want to have done. It’s something I need to do, and not just “when I have the time.” While not always cathartic, emotional writing is a necessary component in my writing. There’s just something inherent in the system.

The Emotional Writing Journey

I have been writing for years, in journals, on napkins and little scraps of paper, hoping to reach out and touch someone with my words, hoping to connect, always finding some understanding of my own feelings and emotions along the way.

I started out on this journey simply writing. Short stories and poetry came first, which led to reading my work in front of hundreds of people, attending writing seminars, joining writer’s groups, reading hundreds of books on writing, submitting to countless publishers, and entering multiple writing contests. As part of the continuous learning, I completed a BA in English and a Masters in Creative Writing.

I experienced plenty of rejection along the way. I still do! But I also managed to have a few things published in journals and magazines, and I self-published several chapbooks of my poetry. I even won a couple of local contests.

In the past few years, I have had several novels published as well as a couple of picture books and some prose and poetry collections. Along the way, I have gained a readership and have made multiple author appearances at writing conferences, book festivals, and conventions. I have been an Arizona State Library Writer in Residence four times. And now, in addition to freelance editing and teaching creative writing, I am now a certified Book Coach in Fiction and Memoir.

I am following my passion and the journey is going well. And I continue to find ways to connect with people through my writing. My favorite comments are those that come from readers who fall in love with the characters, those who become fully engaged in the journey, especially those who are emotionally moved by my stories.

The Difficulty of Writing Emotion That Cuts Deep

I know how difficult it can be, writing emotion that cuts cdeep, writing that claws into the heart and opens us up to introspection, writing that digs up emotions we might prefer remained deeply buried. How our personal flaws and foibles are stripped bare when we look too closely at our lives, our relationships.

Over the years, I shared a lot of my writing with my mother. And although much of my writing was not her cup of tea (she preferred non-fiction, while I like fantasy, etc.) I have always gotten encouragement from her. But I will never forget the one poem that finally touched her heart and moved her emotionally.

The poem isn’t very long; it contains fewer than 30 lines, but it sums up all the fears and feelings and frustration of my relationship with my abusive grandmother. My mother’s mother. A woman who had been demanding and dominating and downright mean. A woman who had become confused and helpless in her old age, and who had to be cared for in the fading years of her life.

As my grandmother lay dying, I did a lot of journaling about my relationship with her.  I had plenty of time to think and write because she clung to life as stubbornly as she’d held onto her anger and prejudices during her lifetime. It was nearly ten days before she finally succumbed. During those days, she remained in a semi-unconscious state, unable to respond to questions or other stimuli. And during those days I wrote. I wrote and I swore and I cried. Then I wrote some more.

I wrote chain-of-consciousness, rambling, anger filled messages. I wrote guilty recriminating, emotional passages. I wrote poetry and fiction and memories and dreams. And finally, I wrote “Another Grandmother Poem.” (Reprinted below.) A poem that captured all of my gut feelings, my anger, my resentment, my reasoning and my personal epiphany in a few short lines.

It spoke of the disbelief, the anger, the fear, and the peace that we were both finally able to find. It was not trite. It was not self-effacing. It was not accusing, nor completely forgiving, but it was honest. And when I finally sent it to my mother, she cried. And when she shared it with a friend, he cried, too. Even though he never knew my grandmother. That poem continues to reach people and evoke emotional responses from them. It has even won a few awards. It is also extremely relevant now, as my mother disappears, her dementia having progressed to the point where she can no longer retain information, which has made reading no longer possible for her.

Writing as Emotional Connection

Since then, I have received comments from readers telling me that my poetry and books have connected, moved them, even helped them to process their own emotions.

When I feel like my writing is failing. When I become frustrated by rejections from publishers. When my words seem to crumble before I can string them together. I know that I have connected, that I can reach out and touch someone with my words. I remember that I’ve done it before. I aim to continue to hit that mark, again.

And again and again and again.

* * *

**ANOTHER GRANDMOTHER POEM**

I don’t think she lost her mind.

She simply discarded it.

The Alzheimer’s diagnosis was wrong.

She couldn’t bear to remember anymore.

Swept up clouds of mist between herself and those she’d hurt,

Or those she’d been hurt by.

Her mind became an unused summer cottage where dust covers draped the furniture.

But selective memories become dangerous ground,

And the dust covers spread and grew like evening shadows stretching into darkness.

Soon only a corner or two stuck out

in tiny moments of clarity.

“How did you find me?” she’d ask in surprise,

Not knowing herself where she was anymore,

And we would have to tell her again who we were.

She didn’t know her own children had died

That all her friends were gone,

Couldn’t recall having moved across country

Or all the years that had passed.

But she knew the natural color of my hair

And how many times I’d been married.

And I was no longer frightened of her—

Her weakness made me laugh until I cried.

My peace was made at the side of a deathbed

Where I could never kneel.

The healing comes with time.

And now, some nights I sit up trying to remember

Everything that I have ever done.

And I wonder if I will still know myself

After all my anger is gone.

* * *

*This blog post was substantially revised from a previous version posted in 2014 on my now-retired website.

** “Another Grandmother Poem” was originally published by Brick Cave Books: In Case You Didn’t Hear Me the First Time: Poetry and Prose (2010).

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