I suppose I should begin the personal portion of my blog with a little background regarding where I’ve been in my head during the past umpteen years. I’ll write more about current thoughts, misadventures, and actions in future blogs. Right now, I’ll just state I’ve been ill for several years, hence the inward journey to find out what I’m really made of. Did I really want to unearth all the warts and demons lying in wait when I struck my spade into uneven inner ground? Not really, but if I wanted to heal mentally and physically I had to be willing to do hard work on myself, thereby allowing myself the freedom to seek something different and worthwhile.
You cannot change what you aren’t willing to acknowledge … no matter what the personal cost. At times the cost has been brutal, other times there have been personal rewards, just depends on the day and circumstance. This has been a daunting task, one I thought made easier since I thought I knew me. Au contraire mon amis, this journey has been one of the hardest adventures I’ve encountered, but no matter the outcome I will be glad I ventured into the unknown recesses of my brain and dealt with life head on.
Am I afraid? Yes, in fact, there are times I’m greatly afraid. However one of the things I’m learning to conquer is a lifetime of fear. So, as I walk through life, I am reminded I do not walk alone. God holds me in His hand, and has never let me go. A friend checks on my mental and physical health, and, at my request tells me if I’m off track with some of my emotions and ramblings. Both God and my friend are my lifeline in, what at times, is a very tenuous grasp on life.
But thither onward I must, so let us begin the walk through the labyrinth. I must remind you my string often breaks and I begin my journey anew, never wanting to get truly lost inside the darkened passages of my mind. 
One day I will meet the Minotaur and do battle. Until then, my sword swings a wide swath, enabling me to walk where many fear to tread. It sings to me alone, of health and mercy, of longing and passion, of conquering fear and death, of relishing the day when I walk into the sun and proclaim the task complete.
Years ago I suffered a bad fall and ended up with loads of physical therapy filling my days. Lots of time in bed, lots of time for depression to thoroughly embed its tentacles of darkness deep inside my psyche. Pain and the separation from life as I knew it altered my days. To save myself, I read. Nothing new there, I’ve been an avid reader most of my life Midway through the recovery, after reading six or seven books a week, I somehow got the notion I could write. Yeah, I know, how deluded is that? I’d like to say I blamed it on the drugs, however there weren’t enough of those around to really alter my lame reality.
Silly me, as I read I thought hey, I can write as well as these authors. I’ve had this story claiming my dreams and daily daydreams for years. I know the characters inside and out, know the scenes, have seen them all in my mind’s eye and know what to do. I didn’t really know what to do, nor did I completely understand what lay ahead. All I saw was a way to try to save my mind, to get outside of what I was going through, to begin to find me again amid all the pain and trauma.
I began what I now call the Shamrock series. I wrote in bed, wrote at doctor’s appointments, wrote while I sat while being iced at physical therapy. Everywhere I went I wrote something on the story. I remember the day I wrote The End on the lined page of a Mead notebook. (I write longhand) I put the date alongside the words, and then cried. Cried that I had completed the work, and cried that I had lived through the time to write hundreds of thousands of words. Needless to say the book was far too long so I’ve divided it and began writing the third book in the series.
It was then I realized I really didn’t know how to write. Let me rephrase that. I wasn’t secure in my writing abilities, nor how to approach anything to do with writing or publishing, or what leads to any of the aspects of getting something published. I took a major step back and joined a writing site in hopes of learning the trade.
I learned a lot, not only about writing, but about people in general. Yeah, another passage in the labyrinth we’ll be going through in the future. I know, you can’t wait!
Now, as I decide what to do with the Myth to Life: The Rise of Riley McCabe series, I’ve been taking a look at my other writing, trying to decide what I’d like to work on next in hope of getting published again.
Right now writing isn’t happening. I’m working around 55 to 60 hours a week. Nothing is happening except sleep and the illness thing. I know this happens every year, but nonetheless it’s still disheartening when I dry up mentally for stories or edits on future projects.
However, amid all the doom and gloom of work and illness, the characters of the Shamrock series have come to the forefront once again. I hear them nudging me to look at what I’ve written. I see them walking around in my mind’s eye, waiting for me to go back to my original loves whose stories ultimately spawned the Riley series. In fact, both these series, as well as a few shorts, are all under the umbrella of cross-over writing for the Shamrock series. Apparently I like things complicated in my life.
So today I sat down at the computer, something I dreaded since I spend ten hours a day at one, and opened the Shamrock files and began another edit of the first chapter. This was something I could do which didn’t require too much rewriting at the moment when life is dead inside my head. I don’t have to create, I just have to rearrange and press the delete key if need be. I edited two chapters and told myself that was good work whether it reads as well as I’d like or not. It was something I accomplished in this unsure time of non-accomplishments. It felt good to go back and read what I’d let simmer for several years. It was like coming home and the characters welcomed me back with only a modicum of resentment after all my time away.
I guess the point of this rambling post is that sometimes life gets in the way of our hopes and dreams. But the hopes and dreams never vanish despite our blinded sight. They live on with or without us.
Which is harder? Seeking your dream and never having it fulfilled or never trying to fulfill your dream because you gave up seeking? Another difficult question I ask as I pursue the path inside my head. 
Can you answer that question honestly?
Ta and peace,
P
