So…what is your book about?

When I started writing my book, I had a very definite idea, or ideas, regarding what is would be about. However, as I write it is morphing and growing into something I did not expect. Apparently this is not only common, it is to be expected.

My course, Writing the Narrative Non-Fiction Book, at Faber Writing Academy concludes next Wednesday. I can’t speak highly enough of what I have gained from the experience.Our tutor, Deborah Robertson, is brilliant. She is kind and gentle, while pushing me to achieve more. I have learned so much. Writing with a group and learning from each others mistakes is invaluable. Having other people’s feedback and hearing the feedback on their own work is so beneficial. A great learning tool.

Last night the group were asked to speak, in an informal manner, to outline what our projects are and why we are writing them. It was a difficult task, but it has solidified my direction and sparked my motivation. I thought I would share it here with you.

My husband died from a deliberate insulin overdose in 2013. It felt like the end of the world. My greatest fear was to be abandoned with two young children.

I met Michael in 1993. He was my best friend for 10 years, and then my partner for 10 more. He was diagnosed with late onset Type 1 diabetes in 2003. The years we spent together followed an unravelling spiral. I lost my sense of security, crisis by crisis. When he died, I felt eviscerated. I also felt betrayed.

Five months later the kids and I went to Brazil for six weeks, to spend Christmas with family. It planted a seed and I realised I could share both my lifelong curiosity and need to find meaning with my kids through travel. I saw it as a way of building resilience, of finding joy, and of seeking out wonder. My mantra became ‘travel is the only happiness money can buy.’

We travelled again the following year. This time alone. Our little family unit of three. It solidified our relationships and bought the kids closer. It also offered them opportunities to see random acts of kindness. They made friends who couldn’t speak English and gained an appreciation of life outside themselves.

We went again a year later, and every year after that.

Our travel took us to Japan. I became an obsessed Japanophile. I began learning the language, studying the history, cooking the food, and reading extensively about Japan and suicide. I found solace in the concept suicide is seen as a way of retaining honour. It resonated.

I also had my own journey towards developing a trust in my self and in my ability to overcome adversity. I walked, thousands of kilometres, I pursued spiritual practices, and I became a fierce advocate for my children.

After years of actively pursuing happiness for myself and my kids, I’ve concluded Michael’s suicide was a completely intentional act. He took his own life to set me and the kids free. To unburden us from his illnesses, both physical and mental. To allow us to live without fear, and without sickness. And to pursue happiness and stability.

After Michael died, I read voraciously. I have always tried to combat anxiety and the unknown with knowledge. I searched for the book I needed, and couldn’t find it. I’m writing the book I wish I had found, the words I needed to read in the aftermath.

I’m also writing in the hope of dispelling some of the stigma attached to suicide. Not just the victims, but the surviving family members and friends. I want to add my voice to that conversation. I strongly believe those who can speak of their experience should.

Lastly, it is the 10 year anniversary of Michael’s death in July this year. I feel far enough away from the event and have processed it to such an extent, I can speak of it with some lucidity. I also want to offer my children, who were 12 and 8 at the time, an adult’s perspective of the story. And to acknowledge their struggle, bravery, and triumph.