Guest Blog: Barb Caffrey on Writing After Widowhood

"Writing After Widowhood"

By Barb Caffrey

A while back, Deborah J. Ross asked me to talk about the differences between writing while my beloved husband Michael was still alive, and writing now. As I've had many years since my husband's unexpected death in 2004 to contemplate this, I agreed to talk about it. Just know in advance that it's not easy, but it is possible. (Spoiler alert!)

Anyway, when Michael was alive, we wrote some short stories together despite having very different writing styles. We could do this because we'd heard Eric Flint, in 2002, discuss how he collaborated with other authors. It was all about communication, Flint said, “Also, if you could check your ego at the door, that would help immensely.”

That wasn't all Michael did, mind you. He edited for me, as I edited for him. He and I talked about our stories for many hours a day, every day of the week, a great gift…and he made sure to do all the things a good husband does for his wife without prompting—and without fanfare.

It was because of all of this that I was able to write 230,000 good words in thirteen months back in 2002 and 2003. And into mid-September of 2004, I believe I wrote around 100,000 words, which isn't bad at all when you consider we had a big move across-country and had to find work and lodgings in the process.

Then, disaster struck. Michael died in September of 2004 of four massive heart attacks. He was awake after the first, but before the rescue squad could get to him, he had his second heart attack. He was clinically dead for eighteen minutes, and then was revived at the hospital. He later had heart attacks three and four…within eleven hours of the first heart attack, my beloved husband was gone.

There was absolutely no warning of this.

Not long after my husband died, I moved back to Wisconsin to be closer to my family. I wasn't much good for anyone for several years; I admit this freely. I was in deep shock, and in some ways I never completely came out of mourning. But I was able to write again within a few years, partly because my husband had left behind stories of his own that were unfinished.

To my mind, it was bad enough that my husband was dead. It would be even worse if the stories he'd worked so hard on died with him.

So even though I wrote in a completely different way, and had never written any space opera or military science fiction before (Michael's work mostly straddled those two lines), I decided I was going to finish at least some of his work and put it up for sale on my own. It would allow me to keep at least part of my husband alive, and doing that—even though most of the people around me, including several professional authors, did not believe I should be wasting my effort this way—was my salvation.

Writer's Round Table: Pros Give Advice on Writer's Block IV

Writer Bobbie Bolig writes poignantly about what it's like to be blocked. I asked some pro writer friends for words of encouragement. Here's my own story:  

For much of my early career, I used to joke that I couldn't afford writer's block. I began writing 

Cemetery, New Orleans, 2012

professionally when my first child was a baby and I learned to use very small amounts of time. This involved "pre-writing," going over the next scene in my mind (while doing stuff like washing the dishes) until I knew exactly how I wanted it to go. Then when I'd get a few minutes at the typewriter (no home computers yet), I'd write like mad. I always had a backlog of scenes and stories and whole books, screaming at me to be written. The bottleneck was the time in which to work on them.

I kept writing through all sorts of life events, some happy, others really awful and traumatic. Like many other writers, I used my work as escape, as solace, as a way of working through difficult situations and complex feelings. I shrouded myself with a sense of invulnerability: I could write my way through anything life threw at me!

Unfortunately, I was wrong.

I hit an immovable wall. My mother had been raped and murdered when my younger daughter was but a wee babe. The DA accepted a plea bargain and so, 9 years later, the perpetrator had his first parole hearing. I put on my psychological armor, marched into San Quentin, and spoke at that hearing. A year later, I found myself in a full-blown post-traumatic crisis. I kept having waking nightmares of both terror and revenge. I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep, and I couldn't stop crying.

Also, I couldn't write fiction. Stream-of-consciousness journaling helped me get through the darkest days, but the creation of an actual story was beyond me. That creative paralysis added another dimension to the meltdown. If I couldn't write, who was I? Where were my secret worlds, my journeys of spirit and heart where people healed and things got better? Gone...and I didn't know if I'd ever get them back.

Supporting A New Writer 3: We've Been There

Recently, I received this letter from Wendy, a fan with whom I’d been corresponding. It spoke deeply to me, and rather than answer it alone, I asked some of my writer friends to join in a series of round table blogs on the issues raised. If you’ve been there, too, I hope you’ll follow along and offer your own wisdom.

I've been trying to reconnect with writing friends after a hiatus from the creative life. I've spent the past year or so taking care of my mom and working to pay the bills. Mom passed away in October.
When your last parent passes away, it changes you in many ways. That foundation you always relied on -- even as an adult -- is gone for good. Whether you're ready or not, you are truly on your own in the world and must somehow carry on without their nurturing presence. One of the most difficult aspects of my mother's final days was the fact that she had so many regrets about life. She once had goals and dreams, but left them behind out of fear and a belief that these dreams were just not possible.
I'm 54 years old. More than half of my life is over. Writing has been a dream/goal of mine since childhood. My mom was the only one who believed in me. I don't want to leave this world regretting the fact that I never pursued this dream to the fullest. To be honest, my writing "career" never took off. I let fear, doubt and the negativity of others keep me from my dreams. I want so much to be brave, to take risks with my creative life. I truly wish for a group of fellow writers who are willing to give me the encouragement and support I need to write with my heart and soul, to grow as a writer and a human being. And I want to be a support for others as well.

How do I get back into the writing life after leaving it on the back burner for so long?

Cynthia Felice: Filling the Giving Hole

My similar experience was long and arduous; each time I thought I was ready to pick up my writing career I discovered, painfully, I was so not ready. I went through years of bewildering anniversaries and finding ways to establish new normals for everyday life that re-establishing my writing life was always something I'd do tomorrow. It's different for everyone, so don't assume setbacks are failures. Your loss and mine were different, and that alone changes working through the loss. But when writing life did start working again, it was because I made myself find a listserv (actually several, but only one clicked for me) of writers who were working at their craft. Just checking in every day and lurking for a while helped me feel connected again to the familiar problems and worries writers have and need to discuss. Eventually I was "talking" again and involved, sharing my concerns and experience with other writers. No one understands writing life the way other writers do. Besides, what else are you going to do with all that tender care you've been giving to your loved one for years? I needed a place to put mine; maybe you do, too. Don't let not giving daily leave a hole in you.

Similarly, I attended the Pikes Peak Writer's Conference http://www.pikespeakwriters.com/ because it's well known for great organization and attracting the best speakers (heh, heh, and I'd been one of those speakers years earlier) and because it takes place in my back yard! It was a wonderful long weekend spent rubbing shoulders with like-minded folk and learning what had changed in the industry while I was away. There are other fine conferences and also very good writers workshops, but I have personal experience with this one, so am content to recommend it. Research carefully if you're tempted to plunk down the fee; not all are equal. You'll notice that I did not recommend a specific listserv; the one I favored no longer exists, but others are out there, and if the daily passive contact appeals to you, you will find them.

Good luck, Wendy!

Cynthia Felice writes science fiction novels, and occasionally writes short stories and articles. She

was a John W. Campbell Award nominee for her novel, Godsfire. Felice is a workshop enthusiast, including being an early Clarion “grad” and a frequent Milford attendee. Her experience includes managing technical editors, writers, and designing configuration control software, as well as writing and editing technical articles, essays, and documents, one of which received the Award for Outstanding Paper from the Society for Technical Communication. Cynthia Felice grew up in Chicago, and now lives with her husband on a ridge east of Colorado Springs overlooking the Front Range.

Deborah's note: Cynthia critiqued my very, very first attempt at a fantasy novel (1980?) with such kindness and insight that I am still writing!

Meg Mac Donald: Dear Wendy,

Your letter touched my heart in so many ways—and in so many ways, on so many levels, I could relate to what you were saying.  As will always be the case, we each have our own story—that moment, that feeling, that fear, that loss that seemed to take away the dream that we had nurtured from childhood on.  Those hurdles in life that seem insurmountable.  We are of an age, you and I.  No doubt we share many of the same memories about childhood pastimes, favorite books, iconic films, moments where planet Earth stopped turning to look to the moon…  What a glorious, bright future we were promised—especially for girls.  What a “brave new world” where we believed that if we dreamt it, we could achieve it.  No better time to be alive.  No better time to want to write science fiction and fantasy.  No better time.

Maybe every generation has that hope.  There’s something about our generation, though.  Something about promises that weren’t kept.  Something about the future not being what it looked like it should be.  Where did it go?  And we tried to hang onto the dreams and may have even had some luck.  Found those older and wiser to nurture us and lead the charge.  For all those that managed to keep going or never faced serious setbacks, there are probably far more whose lives became overwhelming.   In the midst of trying to plant that creative garden and keep it blooming, we grew up and life happened and the frailty of our own lives was realized in the frailty of our aging parents—or the deaths of friends and kin, or the trauma of war, or financial hardship, or personal trauma wearing a hundred different, dark cloaks.