Writing that Healed

In a recent class with my students taking The Writer in You course, we had a session about the metaphorical drawer. During that class, I referred to many of the projects that I have in the drawer, and I discussed the various reasons why a manuscript might be put in there.

During that discussion, I hinted at one project I have totally lost the desire to pull out and finish. I didn't go into any details about why I have no desire to finish that project, and I didn't go into any details about the project itself, because those details were irrelevant for the class.

But a few days later, my subconscious brain decided that I needed to "dream" about that story. Not the reasons behind the story, but the story itself—the writing, the journey, and the growth.

I still don't have any desire to finish the story, but to deny that the story exists would be to deny a portion of my journey and the growth that I had within my writing skills.

So, I've decided that I need to share snippets of that writing with the world. From a writing and editing perspective, those pieces are gold.

If I am honest with myself, they are really good. Sure, that writing came from a time in my life when I was living in fear of a particular person, consciously aware that I had inadvertently given this person the power to destroy my writing career before it had even begun. It took a long time to regain my power, cutting that person out of my life. But I refuse to let a voice that has no consequence or power over me anymore make me silent going forward.

In today's post, I'm going to give you a little insight into a really bad time in my life. And I'm going to share with you what was meant to be the opening scene from a thriller novel that I had started but will never finish.

A Friendship Gone Wrong

When I was a new writer, just starting and learning my craft, I did what I could to connect with other writers, sharing knowledge and experience. I was seeking critique partnerships and writing buddies. In my internet travels, I encountered one woman who was in a similar boat to me (just starting out and wanting to work on action-based stories), and we hit it off.

It was a close friendship that lasted many years, including through a time when my marriage was on the rocks (almost leading to divorce). Even though she lived remotely, she was able to help me out when my husband was in hospital with appendicitis, and she was there to help me celebrate my first publication back in 2017. She was there when I started my editorial business, and she was a huge cheerleader as I started to query agents.

But somewhere along the line, things went awry. It wasn't just any "one" event that I could point to that would tell me when things went wrong. It was so many little things—subtle things—that accumulated over years. And it eventually led to the point where I was afraid.

I still don't know how I let it happen, but I had allowed this woman to be so embedded in everything that I was doing, such that she was in a position of power over my business, even though she had nothing to do with it. If she wanted to, she could have totally destroyed my reputation, putting a black mark against my name permanently.

It took two solid years to get out of that relationship, carefully disentangling her from my business (though there were signs of the toxicity for over four years). During that time, I had a support network of other writers around me, friends who had taken on roles to help me keep an eye on various channels as I worked in the background to take back control.

I never thought I would be the victim of this kind of controlling relationship, but here it was staring me in the face. And the way I was holding myself together through all of it was to write it out.

I had created a new Scrivener project dedicated to my diary of the fear, the anger, and the anxiety. Every negative interaction was noted down. Every time I was in tears, I wrote a little bit more. And eventually, the diary started to morph into an entire thriller novel.

At the time when I was finally able to extract the toxic relationship from my life, the manuscript, the diary, and all the notes associated were stuffed into the metaphorical drawer. Occasionally, I would pull it out, add more research notes, more thoughts, and more feelings—then I would stuff it away again, hiding from the pain that relationship had caused.

Healing Takes a Long Time

It's been over three years since the sever (nearly four), and I can still feel some of the pain. But I'm also now looking at it from a different light.

I look at things now, and I recognize that she was holding me back. Whether it was a conscious thing or not, the signs were there; I just didn't see them (or perhaps I didn't want to see them). And I wonder how many of the choices that I've made were because of the little voice that was her inside my head. Were they choices that I really wanted to make, or were they choices that she had convinced me that I wanted to make?

Two solid years (post sever) to get rid of her voice in my head. And when I finally did…

Just look at how far I have flown during 2025. I know I've made the right choice in severing that relationship, because I'm a different person than what I was back then when she was entrenched.

I'm smiling now. I'm taking terrifying risks and am proudly stepping into the light.

Don't get me wrong: I'm still broken. And there are days when I spiral into the depths of darkness, completely unsure of myself and with no clue as to why I'm crying.

But I think I had to die a little before I could feel life.

I strongly believe that people come into our lives because we have a lesson to learn. I know I learned a lot during what was my darkest time, and in some ways I'm still learning. But I don't need to complete the process of turning that relationship into a literary venture that I have to relive again and again. There's no need. I've moved on.

Instead, I'm going to take pride in the emotional depth that I had learned to cultivate while writing the one project that I will never finish.

The One Written Scene

The passage below was intended to be the opening scene to the novel that will never be completed. I hope you can see the emotions I was feeling at the time it was written.

(440 words)

So, this was what it's like to be shot. At least, I think that's what happened. I'm not really sure, but it all makes sense.

One moment, Marie was standing before me holding the gun up, and the next, I'm flat on my back, staring up at the blue sky with faces moving in and out of my vision.

They say that if you heard the gunshot, then the bullet wasn't meant for you. Well, I never heard it. In fact, I didn't hear anything. I still don't hear anything. Everything is utterly silent.

Lights are flashing in my eyes and I can see lips moving, but no sound is able to penetrate the numbness taking over my body. It's just a flurry of activity, but the only thing that my brain is able to cling to is the silence.

Then it hit like a ten-tonne truck. Screams and shouts accompany the gut-wrenching pain. I thought the silence was bad, but this…

"Sally, stay with me! Don't you dare close your eyes."

I want to stay awake. I know I need to stay awake, but the pain is threatening to pull me under and never let go.

Unable to resist, I close my eyes—and she's there. Marie. With her long black hair that slowly morphs into short blond. She smiling at me. "We'll do this together. Always together."

I jerk my eyes open, not wanting to see her face again. Instead, a hand caresses my cheek.

"That's it, Sally. Stay with me." Henry's voice possesses an eerie calm, but his chocolate eyes are filled with panic and fear. "I won't lose you. Not now. Do you understand me? You stay awake."

It's hard. Whatever strength that I have is vanishing quickly and my eyes are closing involuntarily. But every time I close my eyes, she's there. Marie's seemingly innocent smile that was always up to mischief.