(This might not be the right place so move or delete as you will)
If you have seen my posts are here then you have seen the novel I am querying focuses on the recovery of a feral child. A child raised in complete isolation for thirteen years. I went from a fantasy/horror novel writer to what people are telling me is a contemporary fiction. There is a reason I started studying feral children, even working on a Masters degree on developmental psychology. When I was last active in this forum, I was in the midst of my own isolation. Not from abuse, but I am in a wheelchair, with a super rare disability (there is one other in the state with it and I have never met them), and lived in a rural area. I couldn't transport my powerchair so I spent five years trapped in a house, with very limited access to other people, I didn't leave the house except maybe a handful of times a year just due to lack of resources. I spent five years like this before I broke mentally, I stopped eating, seeing color, I just sat in a room until my grandmother had me sent to a hospital, after about three months of impatient treatment, I resolved to never let it happen again, I ditched the powerchair went in debt for a manual chair that can be broken down and transported, and debt for a car, I found resources, went from a client at an impatient day program to a volunteer, started volunteering in schools and as a tutor, even worked as a substitute teacher until the disability got in the way. But I still have breakdowns, like if I got stuck inside for weeks due to weather or on the farm when everyone but me left for vacation meaning I was alone for about a mile radius. One of those times I wound back up in a hospital. So, I changed that again and moved into in November, I was just in the process of finding places to volunteer, even about to enter a training program to lead classes for people with chronic illness. It might appear that I do a lot, but I don't belong to anything, I never make friends. I have been working at the same radio station for three years and they 'love' me, but beyond the station I have no relationship with them. I am very aware that I am in a lot of these places because of the disability. Pardon the analogy but when racists deny being racist because they have a friend of the nature, so they can't be -- I am very aware I am that friend. I play into it because I can do a lot of good, but it does make one lonely and the feeling of isolation worse. I have no social media and perhaps two friends I talk to on the phone. So, when the episodes come it is easy to sink because there is no one to stop you. I have been quarantined for three weeks, not because I am sick, but because the chair is to hard to disinfect (you constantly touch the wheels on a manual chair), now our governor has shelter-in-place until June 10th, I don't went to be selfish, but I am terrified of sliding backwards and right now there is no mental health help besides talking to my therapist and case manger on the phone. I feel guilty to be worried about it. But there it is, I found what I love though not the absolute worst, but some terrible years of my life. Now, it is all gone.
I have this query letter and another WIP to occupy me.
If you have seen my posts are here then you have seen the novel I am querying focuses on the recovery of a feral child. A child raised in complete isolation for thirteen years. I went from a fantasy/horror novel writer to what people are telling me is a contemporary fiction. There is a reason I started studying feral children, even working on a Masters degree on developmental psychology. When I was last active in this forum, I was in the midst of my own isolation. Not from abuse, but I am in a wheelchair, with a super rare disability (there is one other in the state with it and I have never met them), and lived in a rural area. I couldn't transport my powerchair so I spent five years trapped in a house, with very limited access to other people, I didn't leave the house except maybe a handful of times a year just due to lack of resources. I spent five years like this before I broke mentally, I stopped eating, seeing color, I just sat in a room until my grandmother had me sent to a hospital, after about three months of impatient treatment, I resolved to never let it happen again, I ditched the powerchair went in debt for a manual chair that can be broken down and transported, and debt for a car, I found resources, went from a client at an impatient day program to a volunteer, started volunteering in schools and as a tutor, even worked as a substitute teacher until the disability got in the way. But I still have breakdowns, like if I got stuck inside for weeks due to weather or on the farm when everyone but me left for vacation meaning I was alone for about a mile radius. One of those times I wound back up in a hospital. So, I changed that again and moved into in November, I was just in the process of finding places to volunteer, even about to enter a training program to lead classes for people with chronic illness. It might appear that I do a lot, but I don't belong to anything, I never make friends. I have been working at the same radio station for three years and they 'love' me, but beyond the station I have no relationship with them. I am very aware that I am in a lot of these places because of the disability. Pardon the analogy but when racists deny being racist because they have a friend of the nature, so they can't be -- I am very aware I am that friend. I play into it because I can do a lot of good, but it does make one lonely and the feeling of isolation worse. I have no social media and perhaps two friends I talk to on the phone. So, when the episodes come it is easy to sink because there is no one to stop you. I have been quarantined for three weeks, not because I am sick, but because the chair is to hard to disinfect (you constantly touch the wheels on a manual chair), now our governor has shelter-in-place until June 10th, I don't went to be selfish, but I am terrified of sliding backwards and right now there is no mental health help besides talking to my therapist and case manger on the phone. I feel guilty to be worried about it. But there it is, I found what I love though not the absolute worst, but some terrible years of my life. Now, it is all gone.
I have this query letter and another WIP to occupy me.
