Writing in the Quiet of Ghosts: The Best Kind of Haunted

I love my life as a storyteller, but I own that title with both glee and trepidation. In fiction, I make up stories entirely—but large segments of every character and plot and developmental idea are pulled from my own real-life experiences, because for me, writing and healing are one and the same. But what if I were to look at my own life as a story and myself as a character in it?

Sometimes the real-life stories I would tell are so outrageous I doubt them myself even though I lived them, and it is only the confirmation of others who lived my life beside me that give me comfort. I write as a way of coping with loss, whether it's a parent or marriage, a child or friend, or simply the sense of my self and who I might have been if my life had gone differently. The magic of processing grief through storytelling is that it harnesses the power of memories—both good and bad.

Last week's post was an exploration of this concept, like pollen scattered over a blooming desire to share my journey and my life as a writer in a new way—through stories told as they were lived. The thing is, some stories are harder to tell than others, because when the laughter is gone and the love has faded into the past, the quiet that lingers after goodbye often feels like torture. This is one of those stories.

I read the words through a film of tears sweetened with time but bittered by loss, and wondered why they felt so different from before. I had written them so many times already, always in joyful celebration of great accomplishment and yet this time, they felt somehow...wrong.

I've always done most of my writing in silence. I'm painfully introverted, highly sentimental, and easily distracted; on top of this, writing with PTSD often means finding inspiration in grief while needing a steady, solid atmosphere of safety in which to create. It's a delicate balance that makes the glowing print on my laptop screen seem like so much more than two simple words: "The End."

I left them there, glowing softly against the deepening cover of night, the screen itself backlit by a window filled with moonlight. And I thought about other times I'd written those words.

The first time was a cold winter evening in 2012, and I had just finished my first novel. Three weeks of frantic typing, crafting letters into words and phrases and sentences of poignant emotion, all to escape the looming threat of grief. We didn't know yet if my mother had cancer, didn't know yet how bad it might be, and it was all so complicated. She was a terrible mother—but she was the only one I had.

I was alone in the quiet then too, but I reached for the warmth beside me and whispered, "I did it. Finally, I did it!" And the dog looked up, surprised at my touch; he sniffed the air, black nose twitching in the light of the laptop screen. Assured that all was well, he arched a tawny eyebrow and burrowed closer, then closed twin pools of deep dark chocolate and went back to sleep. When the book came a few weeks later and I held the paperback in my hands, sobbing alone in my kitchen as I flipped through the pages, he danced at my feet.

He was there for the next book too, and the next one. Always a silent support, a warmth curled against my feet or legs as I tapped my way through nine books and three laptops. He held just as steady when the tapping stopped, offering no judgement for either the silenced keyboard or the tortured artist behind it. He left the warmth of a couch cushion behind to don an itchy vest and lay in silence in my therapist's office through countless appointments. He saw two little girls grow and mature into young women. And when I opened the laptop again he was there just the same, with his graying hair and faded nose and increasingly loud snore.

His story ended on a July afternoon in 2024 but mine goes on in the quiet after loss, my emotional writing journey forever marked by his years of faithful service and support.

And so I looked away from the words glowing on the laptop, absent of his warmth, and caught sight of a stark white box embellished with an offset pair of paw prints. The box sits now on the bookshelf in my office, heavy with the precious treasure hidden inside it. I can't pet him anymore...but he's still here, in the ghost of his bark, in the random tufts of hair we still find in hidden corners of the house, in every memory of who and what he was, so much more than just a dog.

I cried in the silence, celebrating the accomplishment even as I grieved the way it took so long to finish this book, searching for the balance between holding on to memories and embracing life after loss. Loss changes creativity. It does. And losing a loved one impacts so much more than the breathing lungs and beating heart that go so still in death.

Still, as they say, "The show must go on." So I dried my tears, I nurtured the pride and excitement lingering beneath the sadness, and I picked up my phone. My friend Beth is a lot less hairy and she's never once curled up against my legs because it'd be weird...but when she answered my call I said, "I did it. Finally, I did it!"

And as all the best friends do, she leapt to the occasion and her joy danced with mine.

*****

STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM was one of the hardest writing projects I've ever tackled, not only because I wrote it in the throes of deepest grief, but also because I carried constantly the weight of my desire for accuracy in telling Christine's story of life after domestic abuse. Now that the writing is finished, I'm moving into the editing phase—which is no less tedious or valuable but is thankfully far less emotionally taxing. STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM will release in March 2026.

In the meantime, the expanded second edition of FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM is the beginning of Christine's story, and this emotionally evocative novel of growth and survival is available now for preorder! FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM will release May 08, 2025, and will maintain a 40% discount until publication day, so don't miss out! (Links to your favorite retailers are here.)

Until next week, I hope you enjoyed this behind the scenes excerpt of my life as an author, and I pray you'll be inspired to always...