Books and films take time—years perhaps—before anything comes of them, if anything comes of them, other than myself and my writing partners arguing over the number of times I have to correct ‘it’s’ to ‘its’ in yet another final version.
Invisibility is a tricky thing. On one hand, it saved me. It was a way I coped with living in a childhood home where if I shut up and hid, it would hurt less. There wasn’t room for me anyway with all those other feelings as loud as thunder booming through the enclosed walls
When I first started writing as a conscious way of processing experiences and feelings, it was an act of desperation. It was at a time where I was completely out of balance – in a bad relationship, single parenting, running my own business, in an undesirable living situation and with not enough support. I was becoming increasingly self-destructive and isolated, ashamed to reach out for help and let people see what was going on in my head and home.
