Writing is Hard by D.F. Krieger (Romance Author University)
Writing is hard. It can be one of the most thankless, penniless, under-rated, and under-appreciated arts in the history of mankind. But writing is never pointless. Writing will always have a purpose, even if it is known only to the writer. Commonly it is an artist portrayal of stories. Love lost and regained. Adventures. Magic and mayhem. Far off worlds, or fears that could be in your own back yard. The power to take you anywhere, if only you dare.
But there are other purposes for writing. Writing can serve as a powerful tool for healing, for expression when oral attempts don’t work, or as therapy all on its own. I should know. I’ve used it for all of these things, and even conveyed this in several of my books.
Usually when I write guest posts, I’m snarky, full of wit, and sometimes down right dirty. But I’m celebrating and I want to tell you why. Recently, I conquered the 5th anniversary of my suicide attempt. I’m not celebrating the suicide attempt itself. I’m celebrating the fact it’s been 5 years since I tried, and for someone with PTSD, anxiety, and chronic depression, that can be a big deal. Do you want to know how I did a majority of my healing? It wasn’t through therapists. I’m a bit of a pain in the butt to work with when it comes to therapy. And I won’t take medication, though I’m totally okay with other people taking it if they need it. My therapist told me to write. Write out my pain, write out my feelings, write out what happened then make alternate scenarios of what I wish had happened. Change my inner world so I can change how I react to the outer world.
It worked. It’s still working.
Maybe you want to know how to do it to. Where to get started? If I may, I’d like to point at a couple of my books. In Too Honor (currently off shelves as I work up the courage to write a more in-depth version), I healed by writing a close resemblance to the things that drove me to suicide. My character suffers circumstances similar to my own and attempts suicide herself. This story was my pain, and it helped me pour out some of the emotions eating at me. In my Risque Confessions series, I broach couples who keep sexual fantasy journals to reignite their marriages. I’ve received fan letters telling me readers have used journals and how much they are enjoying it.
Writing is my therapy. Even if I don’t sell a single copy, I still write. Because, without writing, I risk going to that dark place where I scream in my head and no one can hear me. Where emotions overwhelm me as I attempt to claw out of my own mind. I write, not for the money, but for the healing it brings.
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I clicked the computer off without responding to that. How was I supposed to? I’d tried to dominate him, flat out. The man had effectively turned the situation around to his advantage. As much as it chaffed, it also thrilled me. Maybe I’d well and truly met my match. But would I give in to his command?
Knowing time was of the essence, I darted to the bathroom and took a shower. The idea of going to dinner wreaking of barn, antiseptic, and cleaning agents didn’t appeal to me. I was sure it wouldn’t exactly incite desire in my dinner date either. Then again, he’d seemed perfectly at home in the barn.
Normally, I would have enjoyed my little friend I had stashed in the shower, but I’d set a pretty restrictive time limit so the vibrator would have to wait…again.
“If I don’t get some kind of action before this night is over, by his hand or mine, I’m going to scream,” I grumbled to myself as I towel-dried my hair.
I picked out a cute little sundress that fell just past my knees. A date was a date, after all. When it came time to slip my panties on, I hesitated. Would he really spank me in the parking lot? How would he know if I didn’t wear them? Maybe I should wear them, then decide over dinner whether they stayed after I had a chance to get an idea of his personality.
Yes, that’s what I’d do. I would wear the damn things, and see if he was even worth taking them off for.
When D. F. Krieger was banned from writing contests at her school, she immediately set it in her head that she would become a professional writer. Since then, she has thrown away her plans of world domination through books, but she still enjoys writing. By the time she pens her final book with a hand ravaged by age, she hopes to introduce her readers to many alternate worlds, lines of thinking, and captivating characters.
When she’s not writing, she can be found surrounded by rescue cats who call her, “Mom” while she’s cross-stitching, crocheting, painting, or playing video games. Her family loves that she plays video games, though they refuse to play first person shooter games against her anymore because she makes an awesome sniper.
You can find D. F. on the East Coast, hiding away from the real world with a gleam in her eye and a plot in her head. She resides with her husband, kids, and pets; who all kindly put up with her random bouts of laughter—over things she can’t explain—and journal collecting fetish.
Wanna keep an eye on D. F. online? You can find her at her website dfkrieger.com where she updates what she’s working on and occasionally posts to a blog.