The Work

After a year of writing, I looked at the outpouring of emotion and jumble of scenes from Sandy’s life and knew I needed help to structure it into a story. I started going to writing groups. The first time I read aloud, I cried, overwhelmed by the unexpected emotion of sharing Sandy’s story with strangers.

Gradually I got used to exposing my work to public view. Reading aloud to an audience helped me hear what needed work. I got feedback, lots of it. And I learned by listening to the critiques of other students.

I wrote with a passion. “You can do it, you can do it,” I told myself. On weekends and summer vacations writing was my second job. During the school year I’d get up at 5am, make a cup of tea, and settle in for some work on the book before I had to leave for my teaching job.

I was a woman with a mission. No one seemed to know anything about fetal alcohol brain damage--not teachers, not therapists, and certainly not the public. I wanted to tell Sandy’s story so people could see what fetal alcohol exposure really meant. I wanted to make those abstract words concrete; I wanted to bring them to life.

As I wrote I opened myself to the truth of my emotions. Going back again and again to the events of Sandy’s life helped me gain insight. Even more than the therapy I’d done after her death, it helped me process the trauma and pain. I would have been lost without it. Writing was what helped me pull my life together. Writing helped me heal.