The news of the Record no longer being published was upsetting to me as a novice writer. This was a place my pen and I considered home. It set off an odd reaction in me. My editor emailed requiring a final column from me for December. I had in the past had no problems sending him a column or two as requested. Then I found that my pen and my ease of putting words to paper failed me. I assumed it was writer's block. I tried starting a paragraph or two, but it felt mechanical or wooden. It didn't connect what I wanted to convey in my heart and mind. Then I tried writing about technical issues. Again that was quickly deleted. I was writing about issues that I had little to no knowledge of.
First I thought I'd lost my gift of words. I was considered a word warrior in my community. A writer who writes about social issues from my personal experience--from an Indigenous point of view.
So I tried writing for another publication and had no problems coming up with a brief article for them. I hadn't lost my style of writing or my tools as a word warrior.
I realized that I don't accept change easily and losing the Record as a publication affected me and my ability to write easily. Maybe if I refused to send in that last column there wouldn't be any final goodbyes or a final deadline.
There have been too many goodbyes in my life. Yes, I realize goodbyes are a part of life, but not the goodbyes that I have had to say. Goodbye to my parents. Goodbye to my siblings. Each time I felt safe at the place where I was in my life. Then it was a goodbye time once again.