Death is Everywhere

I'm an optimist! The title and first sentence may seem incongruous--they're not. I'm an optimist even though I know death is everywhere. I'm also a Christian, which shapes my world view and perspective toward death.

As writers, if we don't acknowledge the ubiquity of death, we avoid a significant aspect of life. People die around us daily; we read about shootings, or car accidents, or floods in the paper or on Facebook; we see stories on the news of tragic deaths both here and abroad. Sometimes the deaths are closer to home--a parent, spouse, child, or friend. These deaths affect us deeply, changing us, shaping us.

The death of a loved one is like an amputation. Gerald Sittser writes in A Grace Disguised that "catastrophic loss is like undergoing an amputation of our identity. It is not like the literal amputation of a limb. Rather it is more like the amputation of the self from the self" (Sittser 70). These losses affect us deeply and profoundly and our lives are not the same. Death amputates a part of us; it alters our gait. We need to learn to live with the amputation; we learn to walk with a new gait--one that absorbs the loss.

Queen Victoria, Prince Albert, and their 9 children

My point here is that as write stories, or novels, or poems, if we don't write about how our characters' losses through death have shaped their lives, we may be missing a crucial component of their character.

In the two novels I've written (am writing), each contains a woman dying in childbirth. Don't analyze me! Scores of women die in childbirth, even today--even in America. Centuries ago it was common for women to die in childbirth. Queen Victoria had 9 children, and during her first pregnancy her closest advisors put a plan for succession in place... in case she died in childbirth. She didn't die in childbirth, and in fact her husband Prince Albert predeceased her by 40 years. After Prince Albert's death, Queen Victoria went into mourning, and she wore black for the rest of her life. Her husband's death shaped the rest of her own life.


As you create characters, or write historical fiction, include in their personal histories and backstories the deaths that shaped them. This will add depth, complexity, and veracity to your writing.

Stories Are Everywhere

Walking to work today I greeted or interacted with six people. My walk is only three blocks long! I like living in the neighborhood where I work and attend church. Once I got to the office I'm working in today, I realized how each person I greeted or talked to has a story. Some I know; some I don't. But every person has a story; and every story is potential for a short story, a poem, a character, or a novel.

First, I greeted an Egyptian man who is always out and about in the neighborhood. His sons attended our after-school program and his older son hung out with one of my sons. Then I saw an older woman from our church. Her son recently died of throat cancer and she is still grieving. She has a story to tell. In the next block I came across a former student. She took my speech class over a year ago and is still pursuing her Associate's Degree.

Before I reached Dunkin Donuts I came upon a homeless man whom I've talked to a bit. I gave him some change and wondered how he ended up homeless on the streets of Jersey City. I'm sure there is a long, fascinating, somewhat tragic story there. While waiting for my bagel, I saw another former student. This young Pakistani woman told me about her struggles in this country. She is now finishing her degree at NJIT. I know a few of her stories, but I'm sure her life is worthy of a book!

As I left Dunkin Donuts to walk the remaining block, another homeless man asked me for money, which I gave him. When he said he needed a hug, I told him "I don't hug strangers," which isn't 100% true, but I shook his hand instead. Again, I can only imagine the stories he could tell--about his own life, and others' lives.

If you're an aspiring writer, just look around you every day. Talk to people. Engage. There are stories all around us!

Grief Described

How can one describe grief? It is universal, yet individual. It comes to every person, yet its manifestation is unique, not only for each person, but for each grief observed. Grief can overtake us, diminish us, expand us, and show us both the limits and breadth of our humanity. Many poets, playwrights, songwriters, and novelists have attempted to describe grief--to greater or lesser success. 

The best book on grief I have ever read is non-fiction, by Gerald L. Sittser--A Grace Disguised. The title alone is powerful. Sittser lost his mother, wife, and one daughter in a car accident he survived. The drunk driver who hit his car robbed him of three generations of women instantaneously. I cannot fathom that kind of grief. But his description of what he went through brought healing to me after my own sweet dad died in 1996. I have recommended his book to many others, and bought several copies to give to those in the throes of grief. I remember one passage in particular--he writes an analogy about the necessity to go through the darkness (the grief) to get to the light (the healing).  Read along here as he describes his dream:

I dreamed of a setting sun. I was frantically running west, trying desperately to catch it and remain in its fiery warmth and light. But I was losing the race. The sun was beating me to the horizon and was soon gone. I suddenly found myself in the twilight. Exhausted, I stopped running and glanced with foreboding over my shoulder to the east. I saw a vast darkness closing in on me. I was terrified by that darkness. I wanted to keep running after the sun, though I knew that it was futile, for it had already proven itself faster than I was. So I lost all hope, collapsed to the ground, and fell into despair...  my sister, Diane, told me that the quickest way for anyone to reach the sun and the light of day is not to run west, chasing after the setting sun, but to head east, plunging into the darkness until one comes to the sunrise.  (Sittser 33)

What a powerful image. I continue to dwell on that as I grieve the losses in my life. A friend of his mentioned a poem by John Donne in which he describes east and west as opposites which come together if one is followed far enough. In case you're curious, here is the poem by John Donne:

Hymn to God, My God, in My Sickness

By John Donne

Since I am coming to that holy room,

         Where, with thy choir of saints for evermore,

I shall be made thy music; as I come

         I tune the instrument here at the door,

         And what I must do then, think here before.

Whilst my physicians by their love are grown

         Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie

Flat on this bed, that by them may be shown

         That this is my south-west discovery,

      Per fretum febris, by these straits to die,

I joy, that in these straits I see my west;

         For, though their currents yield return to none,

What shall my west hurt me? As west and east

         In all flat maps (and I am one) are one,

         So death doth touch the resurrection.

Is the Pacific Sea my home? Or are

         The eastern riches? Is Jerusalem?

Anyan, and Magellan, and Gibraltar,

         All straits, and none but straits, are ways to them,

         Whether where Japhet dwelt, or Cham, or Shem.

We think that Paradise and Calvary,

         Christ's cross, and Adam's tree, stood in one place;

Look, Lord, and find both Adams met in me;

         As the first Adam's sweat surrounds my face,

         May the last Adam's blood my soul embrace.

So, in his purple wrapp'd, receive me, Lord;

         By these his thorns, give me his other crown;

And as to others' souls I preach'd thy word,

         Be this my text, my sermon to mine own:

"Therefore that he may raise, the Lord throws down."

Stay turned for more on describing grief in my next blog post. Please share with me an especially apt description of grief you have read, or written!

KT Writing

After my mom died, my siblings, my husband and I had the heart-wrenching task of cleaning out her house, the house I grew up in, the house she lived in with my dad for 32 years until he died, and then 20 more years. My husband and I emptied the bookshelves, filling over 50 boxes of books. My parents were great readers—classics, mystery novels, Shakespeare’s plays, a collection of books on the Antarctic, and Jane Austen. I grew up around books and have been an avid reader for as long as I can remember. I have also turned to the pen, then the typewriter, then the computer to express myself. I am a writer.

            Although I have been writing for decades, I have not always been comfortable identifying as a writer. In my mind a writer is someone who writes well, who writes for a living, or who has gotten paid for his or her writing. It seems presumptuous to call oneself a writer—it seems to be a moniker only others can apply.

            My first attempts at writing were in school, the requisite haiku's, essays, and short stories. I made my first attempt at serious writing after I got married and decided to explore my Irish roots. After reading Leon Uris’ Trinity I decided to write a novel about an IRA soldier (terrorist) and the troubles in Northern Ireland. After about 25 pages I gave up on that novel.

            Subsequently, I worked on a novel about a young woman who lived in Manhattan in the early 80s (or was that a memoir?!). I spent a bit more time on that, worked up an outline and a few chapters before that too went into the circular file. Writing took a backseat to motherhood, but after my second son was born I decided to try again. This time I decided to follow the advice to “write what you know.” Both my young sons had asthma, so I worked on an essay for parents on coping with chronically ill children.

            I figured I would start small, and write about something I had experience with, and then branch out to more creative writing. For over a year I worked on this short piece. The first step was deciding on a topic – caring for chronically ill children. Then I created an outline, using my own experience to guide the main points. After I had a rough draft I identified and interviewed experts in the field. Articles in popular parenting magazines typically include quotes from experts. My own personal experience would not carry enough gravitas to sell the article. The interviewing process was long and sometimes frustrating, but very rewarding. I distinctly remember interviewing Leo Buscaglia on the phone – back in 1992. He is a psychologist who works with disabled kids and their parents, and a very wise and sweet man. His quote contributed to the section on parental guilt: “After thinking logically, parents will realize they would never have planned anything to hurt their child,” Buscaglia told me on the phone.  After I finished the article and incorporated the quotes, I added a box of helpful organizations parents could contact for help.

            Once the article was finished, all I needed to do was find a magazine willing to publish it! Several queries were sent and rejection letters received, until the day I received an envelope in the mail from American Baby Magazine. What a memorable day! They liked the article and wanted to publish it. They offered to pay me $250! I was ecstatic! I remember laughing and crying simultaneously. I had arrived—I was a writer.

            The money was not significant; the magazine was not prominent; the article was not long. But an editor had determined the content and quality of the writing was sufficient to pay me to print it in their magazine. Ten years later I co-wrote a book, and the advance was $2,500. Although it was ten times as much as my first check for writing, nothing could match my euphoria when I received my first check for writing.

            In addition to 50 boxes of books, I cleaned out my dad’s 10 file cabinets in his office and the garage. I went through all of them, file by file. As a college professor, he had files on almost everything—think “Google” in file cabinets. He also had a lot of personal files, including files on the children and grandchildren. I kept a few of them. I found my first published article in one marked “KT Writing.”