The Book of Me

In just 3 minutes and 52 seconds, her life fell apart. 26 years of life shattered into millions of sharp little daggers into a heap on that cold hospital floor. Her long blond hair fell over her face as she sobbed uncontrollably. Her hands cupped her red swollen eyes and quickly overflowed with tears. Forever burned in her mind, were the surgeons words: “The tumour is wrapped around his brainstem. There is nothing more we can do to help him.” Her body shuddered in shock. At that moment the world around her was silenced. Nothing existed but the pain that was ripping her apart from the inside out. Slowly tearing every organ, every fibre and every hair into pieces. “Cassie, Cassie,” her husband cried. 1 year earlier Her name was Cassie McIntyre. A household name in the City of Woodsro. Cassie was a journalist for the local newspaper, The Sentinel-Review. She covered the crime beat, chasing ambulances and fire trucks and hanging around the courthouse. A fearless b...

Ever since I learned how to write, I have been writing. I am not a professional, nor do I pretend to be. I am not an English major or a published author. I wrote the news for years (almost 10 if you count my years at my college newspaper). But the benefit of writing for me is not for money; it's for pleasure. Writing makes me feel good. Since I was 10 years old I kept a diary. I wrote down my thoughts, my daily activities and everything in between. It was my stress relief - how I figured shit out. I can trace every low point in my life to a time when I stopped writing for pleasure. Pen to a paper, fingers to a keyboard, I have to write. My sanity depends on it. So, here I go. I intend on writing about my life, about stories I have swirling around in my head. And maybe share some excerpts from my diaries as a child. If no one reads this, that's fine. It's not for anyone else but me. But if they do, that's ok too. If I can bring a tear, a laugh or a smile to someone e...