I Wrote a Book

I always thought I would have to be either extremely imaginative or several decades older in order to write a book. Yet during the month of November, I challenged myself to write a complete novel…and I did it. I did it! Heavenly Father showed me what to write.

Several years ago, I went out of my way to take a holistic nursing class. The practice I still use daily is called “dreamwork,” in which one learns to understand the meanings of one’s dreams, maybe even others’ too. It says right in the Bible Dictionary that dreams are another way Heavenly Father communicates with His children, and some dreams are even described in the scriptures. When I learned about dreams, I was thrilled to notice the messages Heavenly Father had been giving me in my dreams during my life. I began to pray that Heavenly Father would teach me in my sleep. Because I pay better attention now, He often does.

During a dream, the subconscious mind bubbles up into our consciousness. If we pay attention, we can be given answers to our problems and guidance for our lives. We find out how wise we are and how connected we are to Heavenly Father, deep, deep, deep down.

While I wrote this book, I felt like I was daydreaming—like I was literally accessing the subconscious parts of my brain while awake. It was wild, and awesome. My characters fleshed out easily, and I loved them immediately. There is no going back once you wake up like that.

Early in the month, I was exhausted with the metaphorical bag of rocks I carry in my waking life. We all have one—just look at that heavy thing slung over your shoulder.

I had an appointment with my doctor and shared my concerns, and also related, as an aside, that I had started writing a novel. She is a published author many times over, so I told her the premise of my book. I mentioned a character who was having second thoughts about a big decision, and how I didn’t know what he was going to do. It seemed to be my own version of “writer’s block.”

In that moment, I realized how much his issue symbolically matched the quandary of my waking life. “It will be interesting to see what he decides to do,” I conceded with a shrug. My doctor expressed interest in his outcome; I bet she realized that his fate would somehow help me realize my own.

Through the coming weeks, that character and I really struggled together. I had compassion for him, and by extension, I learned, for myself. I loved myself for struggling and trying and having growing pains. And my character sure hurt too, but I knew he would be okay. I knew he was strong enough to heft his bag of rocks.

This is my first novel, but it can’t be my last. It is too therapeutic to stop. Heavenly Father helped me access my inner wisdom and get through my pile of rocks.

The greatest accomplishment of writing my novel is not that it is written, though I feel joyful about this. The greatest accomplishment is that, now, I love my Lyme. I love it. I love the gifts it has given to me. Gee whiz, it’s all mine—my struggle, my grief. I see myself as a character that I believe in, who I know will be okay, even if I have writer’s block figuring myself out.

I love my Lyme. The critter that has taken over the function of some of my cells acts out of a loving concern for me. It gifts me with struggles that prove who I am in this epic of life. Fifty thousand words could never contain all this; I must be pretty awesome.

Now, my Lyme is as precious to me as my characters. They were born out of love from my subconscious mind, and I think my Lyme was born out of love too, whenever it infected me. My characters keep slapping me on the back, letting me know I’m as okay as they are. I am safe and remembered, and I am trusted by Heavenly Father to do the right thing in my story.

There is purpose to every rock in my sack, and maybe, in the end, it is a joy to be added upon with more rocks when I need more stretching. I’m a plucky, resilient character who doesn’t know how to quit.

My husband has read my manuscript and likes it. I printed it and spiral bound it into a 175-page book so I can edit easier. I love its heft in my hands, like a piece of my heart and deepest mind has literally materialized. When I read the manuscript last week, I knew which parts in the arc of the story needed to be expanded like an accordion. It is an exciting work.

Writing my novel has been an immensely private, selfish, vulnerable, therapeutic work. I updated my doctor just yesterday as we sat like girlfriends, talking about fiction. She didn’t even charge me for an office visit; it was crazy. Maybe it was therapeutic for her to sit back in her chair and talk about the love invested in story-writing. She thinks my book could help people, like it has helped me.

Someday it may be read by others, but I did not initially write to be published. I wrote to write. My characters and I hang out and heckle each other as I continue to daydream about them and other stories that need to be told.

Maybe it is selfish to hang onto my characters for only myself. Maybe I need to learn eventually end this “book honeymoon” and set them free.

I am grateful for the safety of stories. Stories matter. Families stick together with family legends and stories, everything from ancestor narratives to recent embarrassing moments. Prophets comfort the afflicted and lovingly prick heart with stories. Jesus told masterful stories, each with a thousand levels of understanding. They can be studied for millennia, I feel, and never be fully digested.

I did not know I had a story. But because of Lyme, I do. I can talk about my rocks, look at the rocks of my characters, relate my rocks to other people’s rocks. It is really beautiful.

I am really grateful.