A Muse With Bluebirds in Her Garden: The Story Behind the Story

I think it’s high time that I shared this story.

Every artist has that ‘why’ story. That moment in their life where their artistry skyrocketed and they decided that this is who they were. The moment that shaped them as a writer.

Mine was the day my grandma died.

I think everyone has a muse—and for a while, she was mine.

My grandma was my biggest fan, most engrossed reader, and most dedicated editor. She read every draft to every chapter I ever wrote. She was my everything and she was the main reason I kept writing. When I hit stumbling blocks, she helped me through, urging me on when writing felt like birthing porcupines or plotting like wrestling ghosts.

But more than that my grandma was the type of person who noticed if you didn’t have an embroidery thread cutter and came back the next week with not only a thread cutter but more needles and thread as well. She was the person whose greatest joy was in the way the bluebirds returned each spring, the way flowers bloomed along the side of the road, and the way she loved her grandchildren so completely.

There is a quote by Mother Theresa that says, “Every person is Christ to me, and since there is only one Jesus, that person is the one person in the world at that moment.” Meaning, if our bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit(1 Corinthians 3:16–17), then every one of us has Christ within us. And since there is only one Jesus, then the person you are speaking to is the only person in the entire world in that moment. This quote firmly embodies the way my grandmother lived.

Everybody she talked to was the most important person in the world.

She would never look over your shoulder as if there were other people who were catching her attention. She would never be distracted by the outside world and forget to look you in your eyes and notice the emotion behind them. She would always notice when somebody’s heart was heavy, and no plans that she previously had were as important as sitting and talking through them.

You, for all the time you were speaking to her, truly were the only person in the world.

But then she passed.

She was the most amazing person in my life and she left without any fanfare or blowing trumpets. One day she was alive. The next day she was gone. And somewhere in between I broke.

Death is a harsh thing and in its wake is left the most shattered creatures. I was simply a broken, grieving girl who had no idea how to take another step.

For nearly six months I didn’t touch a keyboard or pick up a pen. I couldn’t bring myself to continue something she would never get to see completed. I had started everything with her…and I didn’t know how I was supposed to finish without her. Finally, I realized that she wanted me to finish. She still listened. She still cared.

So, I opened the file, picked up my pen, and wrote.

At first, I wrote thrilling stories. Stories that I thought the world wanted to see. Stories about magic and cataclysmic disasters and celestial wars.

Stories that never made it to the light of day. Stories that I still cringe to think I jotted down. Stories that just weren’t real.

So then, about one year ago, I started a novel writing class. It was very ‘nuts and bolts’ but it gave me the opportunity to write THE story. The one that made me think that maybe there was still depth in me after her death.

I named it The Silence of Screaming Stars.

A story about pain, suffering, and grief. A tale that embodies the lies we tell ourselves and our struggles with identity.

A story about hope and redemption, about coming to terms with who we are and the gifts we are given.

I finished it nine months later and now it is working to be my debut novel.

There are books that I will never write. Books that I wrote with her. Books that I was writing when she died. Books that I can never finish…because she was a part of them. But I’m ok with that. There is a sacredness to those books. Those pages that will never be completed…those drafts that will never be touched. I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

I wish I could share what is happening with my writing with her. I wish I could tell her how much I’m grateful for her and let her read my current WIPs.

But I can’t.

And yet, I know she’s listening to it all and smiling down from heaven.

See, grief never goes away.

It’s not a pain that heals.

But it does get easier. After a while, you can breathe again. After a while, you can think of them without it hurting as much.

And the memories—you only learn to cherish them more the longer you live.