This is a blog entry I write to myself to mark a celebration.
I am drawing my very last page of "Forget Sorrow: An Ancestral Tale," a memoir in graphic (comics) format. I've buried my great grandfather, I've taken the ashes of my grandparents to holy Wutain Mountain, I've made my father cry in remembering. It's taken me 13 years to reach this point. It has been a long struggle with agents, baskets of gloom, loads of exasperation, when I have passed out on my bed to sleep off the disappointment of another regjection. And now the internal fanfare of joy. It's been well worth all the heartache, the reams of typewritten pages, the 250 pages of Bristol board, drawn in black gouache and pencil.
When this book is published next year by WW Norton and Company, I'll have turned 50. I began the as a young woman of 36. The hair on my right temple is frosted white with memories, and I am so very grateful for life and this journey of creation. (I can't wait to begin another memoir in graphic format this fall.)
In the next month, I will go back through the entire book and make corrections or add details. Then my editor and the art directors will work with me to insert corrected texts.
But this evening, this very evening will be the meditative mopping of my long-neglected kitchen floor, even as the seraphs gavotte above my head and point out the specks of dirt.
Causes Belle Yang Supports
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