This post discusses domestic violence.
October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month.
I should write.
I’m scared to write. (Of memories, not for anything happening in my life now.)
I thought of copying a story I wrote years ago. It’s good; it’s relevant.
I can’t find what I did with the computer copy.
I found a handwritten copy in a composition book. It’s the story, but this isn’t the title I remember. Which may mean this is a working copy, or it may mean I remember the working title better than the final.
The date tells me it’s not the first draft. And the opening line confirms, unerringly, that this is the right story. A decade later, that line still haunts me.
But I know this isn’t going to be a simple matter of cut and paste. My writing then wasn’t as strong as my writing now, and this is possibly not even the strongest version of my writing then.
I’m going to have to re-read this story. I’m going to have to re-work it, re-write it, re-live it. It’s going to be especially awkward in a blog because odds are good I will go back to edit at least one post days after I make it.
And it’s going to hurt.
But that’s okay. Because the hurt is in the past and the awkwardness is inconvenience and what matters now is that it’s a story worth telling.
And it is.