I haven't written anything since my mom's death in December. I'm not sure why. But today I feel like writing so I'm just going to let it flow.
I received the nicest comments today about my book Growing Up Irish Memories of a Hungry Hill Childhood. The gist of the remarks was that the gentleman who made them—some seven or so years my junior—thanked me and said that he felt he was reliving his childhood including the school, interactions with nuns and priests, and so on. Since my primary objective was to evoke the feel of a special place in a special time peopled by engaging and endearing characters including yours truly, the comments really warmed my heart.
I haven't promoted this latest writing adventure much. The joy was in recalling the memories, focusing on the good times without any of the angst, and searching for the faded, often crumbled photos that added another dimension to the tales of my childhood and the relatives and friends who were a part of it. I'm so grateful that I completed it in time so my mother could enjoy it as well. I have her copy now. Even though she only had it for about six months it's fairly dog-eared from her frequent readings. She told me she read it at least eight or nine times and always found something she'd forgotten about. I'm glad. I think one of the things she enjoyed most in the months before she died was the remembrances of her life—her parents, her siblings, her childhood, her friends, her adventures. That I could play a small part of that by memorializing some of those people and moments brings me a great sense of satisfaction and peace.
Speaking of peace— when I pieced together my mom's obituary from multiple pages of her scribbled notes that I found in her home several months before her death (before we even thought her death was anything more than a possibility because of her age alone). I asked that she read it and "sign off" on it. She did. When I submitted it to the newspaper for publication it stated she died "peacefully." I really, really struggled with that. While she may have had eighteen hours free from pain and was seemingly at peace, the weeks and months leading up to that were anything but peaceful. In fact, she was as feisty, spunky, and spirited on the months-long journey to the end of her life as she was throughout her life. And I truly believe that any peace she finally found was thanks to the good Fr. Farland not the end-of-life drugs we had to beg, plead and cry (yes, cry) for from a hopelessly deficient health care provider/system. But that's the stuff of another blog.
Anyhow, getting back to books. Self -publishing requires significant self-promotion. I am getting the hang of self-publishing now that I've managed to crank out two books in a decade and a half. Prolific author I am not. For me, the promotion doesn't come easily. With Missing Michael, I believed there was a ready-made audience of parents who were experiencing the travails of living with seizures day in and day out. I reasoned that if I could help just one parent feel less alone in their grief, despair and discouragement that it was worth putting my family's pain on the printed page. I tracked the sales incessantly the first few months. I wanted the book to sell well because I actually DID hear from parents who felt comforted that indeed they were not alone. It was worth it even though it cost more to publish it than the earnings generated after 15 years of anemic sales! As for Growing Up Irish, that's another story altogether. It was a pleasure to write, and it's been great fun to read the mostly positive reviews and the comments about similar childhoods and experiences. So—I guess if I want to keep having that fun, I'll have to learn to promote my work without apology.
Back to my mom. I'll be headed back to my childhood neighborhood in the spring to celebrate my mom's long and wonderful life and bury her next to my dad. One of my brothers wants me to speak at the church. I don't want to. I've written about my mother in blogs and in a book. I dedicated my first book to her. She was alive to feel the meaning of all my words. I sobbed in the hours leading up to and following her death. I have not cried much since—but I'm pretty sure that seeing and greeting so many of the family and friends from my childhood coupled with the songs that will be sung during her service will surely cause tears to spill. I'm pretty sure I'm going to pass and leave the eulogy to Fr. Farland. I'm pretty sure...
