Years ago, when I read C.S. Lewis' A Grief Observed, I assumed that if I were ever to lose someone that close to me, I would write about it, churning out page after page as my way of coping. As Anne Frank wrote, "Paper is patient". And, my grandfathers' deaths did inspire some writing that I still consider among my best.
But these past few years, my pen is not set often to paper, nor my fingers to keyboard---except in emails and random online postings. I no longer think of myself as a frustrated writer. My life dreams no longer include writing The Great American Novel.
So it's not surprising that I've not been churning out daily chronicles of my sojourn through the land of mourning. What is suprising is how much I wish I were.