It is difficult, I think, to write about deeply personal things on a public journal like this one. But given that, more than the other blogs I keep, this one is far more about my own life as a writer, it seemed impossible to write anything here before I addressed my current period of grief and mourning.
My mother died on the night of July 3rd. She had been diagnosed with cancer about fifteen months earlier, and while I tried to remain optimistic through much of the ordeal, the form she had was both rare and aggressive, and no treatment was sufficient to prevent it from taking her life. Nearly three weeks later, I'm still partially in shock, even though the reason I came back to Massachusetts was to be there with her when she passed. My parents were the pillars on which my life was built, and to see one of them crumble and now reckon with what life looks like without my mother in it is a dizzying, agonizing experience.
My mother had practiced law, but much like me, her soul was that of a writer. She wrote short stories and novellas, and had been working on a magnum opus set in the early days of the United States for over a decade when she died. My mom introduced be to classical mythology at a young age, and one of my most treasured sources of stories is the illustrated D'Aulaire's Book of Greek Myths.
Our taste in stories was certainly different - I have always tended toward speculative fiction: science fiction and fantasy, while my mother was engrossed with the intricacies of history. She was fascinated by the minutiae of daily life as well as the birth of new ideas and philosophies. In her last days, I found myself discovering how unusually refined her taste was, and how it all tied into her appreciation of the interwoven strands of history.
My mother was many things to many people, mostly a friend and caretaker. The oldest of eight children, she managed to be the most diplomatic and empathetic. To me, she was also many things, but relevant here was the fact that she was my primary appreciator. She read my stories, and she encouraged me with her attention. She worried for Ana Sweeney, and she called Jack Milton a hero. In a sense, I wrote for her. She had shared such wonderful stories with me, and I felt I needed to create my own to give in return.
Whether she exists in a form that can continue to read my stories or not, the pain that I will have to live with is that I will never be able to know - that she read it, what she thought of it. I will have to keep writing, though, in the hope that somehow, the stories will reach her.
