Tell Me A Story

What's the next chapter?

"Why don't you want to write?" Dad sipped his coffee from a white ceramic mug with the words "Let's Go Crazy" scrawled across it, his phone in the other hand. He'd scroll through the news after he settled in on the couch, took his medication, and enjoyed a cookie.

"I do write."

Dad gave me his you-know-what-I-mean look.

I did know what he meant. When I bowed out of the author life 8 years ago, it saddened him. He respected my decision but didn't like it.

"You have a way with words. You always have. Even when you were little, you'd tell us stories."

Dad recorded my stories and singing; God bless my parents for listening to those vocals. But in those recordings of 5-year-old Andrea, Dad would say, "Tell me a story," and off we would go in a kaleidoscopic tale of wonder and whimsy.

I twisted my hair around my finger. "The fictional publishing world broke me. I don't want to experience that again. I'm a different writer now, and I like writing on my Substack and journal every day."

Dad put his phone down. "I know you do, but what about all those stories you wrote? What about what you have gone through? That's something to write about. You don't have to go through a publisher. You did great when you did it on your own."

"It's different now. I have been out of that world for so long that I don't know if I have it in me to go back. I don't know," I shifted in the rocker.

"I don't know how I will be after you die." I wanted to say that, but those words refused to breach my lips.

"Just don't stop writing, okay?"

"I promise I won't."

I came across an old photo I created for one of the Norse mythology manuscripts I was working on.

A woman returns home after her dad's terminal diagnosis. Unsettled with his mysterious illness, she isn't satisfied with the doctor's analysis, but she unearths a family secret too great to ignore. She is determined to save her dad before time runs out.

This was in 2015, and wow, the parallels between this manuscript and my reality caused me to pause.

I never finished it, so I wonder if she saved him; I'd like to think she did.

There are slivers of me that question: do I write about what has happened but in fiction form? Or do I go the non-fiction route? Do people really want to read something like that? What about the inappropriate humor family manuscript I began? Do I mix it with that?

I wrote Deadly Deception 14 years ago, and Dr. Anne has received mixed reviews. I am a different writer, but will anyone even want to read what I publish?

Those are just a few questions I grapple with.

Fear stops me.

I stop myself.

I get in my own way. I always have.

I am my worst and most harsh critic.

When people tell me they bought Deadly Deception, I cringe. I shouldn't, and I am proud of landing #4 on the bestseller list, but that damn book has taken more hits, and the entire traditional publishing experience still cuts me.

Any story about my dad, fiction or otherwise, is sacred, and if people shredded it, it would feel like he died all over again. I don't know if I can endure that.

I know Dad would tell me not to be scared and to not care about what people say, but that's hard when it's about him or his death. I'm protective when it comes to Dad; I always have been.

Can I breathe life into something I struck down years ago?

Dad said there was a meaning for his death. A reason I am in this place at this time in my life.

All the pain.

All the darkness.

All the lessons.

All the grief.

Maybe he was right.

Maybe it's healing.

Maybe it's the words on his coffee mug, let's go crazy.

Maybe it's the dark humor of it all.

Maybe it's time to venture out of my safe place because, goodness, do I have a story for you.