Item: The Light in the Darkness: Musings on Living With Cancer
Author: Gina

The Light in the Darkness by Jo St Leon | $15 Giveaway, Excerpt, Guest Post from Author

A book blog tour from Goddess Fish Promotions.

Thank you to the author, publisher, and Marianne & Judy at Goddess Fish for providing me with the information for this tour.

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Book Details

The Light in the Darkness: Musings on Living with Cancer

The Light in the Darkness: Musings on Living With Cancer by Jo St Leon
Published by Tellwell Talent on 08/25/2021
Genres: Inspirational & Personal Growth, Non-fiction, Essays, Own Voices, Quick Reads
Format: eBook, Hardcover, Paperback
Pages: 68

The Light in the Darkness is a must-have companion for anyone living with a serious illness, or caring for a loved one with such an illness.

With this collection of reflections and personal essays, Jo St Leon shares her experiences, her darkest moments, and her greatest joys.

She tells of the journey from fear and denial to acceptance and a determination to live her best life. She shares her deepest thoughts and feelings, always with her characteristic blend of wry humour and wisdom.

The Light in the Darkness is the book Jo wishes she could have found when she first received her cancer diagnosis.

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Excerpt from The Light in the Darkness

According to my doctors, I am something of a medical miracle. A year after I am supposed to have died, here I still am—living a fulfilling and productive life. So, what on earth makes me think I have anything to offer the very sick, the dying, the people whose treatment takes all their time, concentration, and energy? I have been bedridden only once, and I am certainly not yet at death’s door—so if I haven’t been there, I can’t write about it, can I?

Well, no, not directly, but I can offer my own experience. I write about my reaction to the diagnosis: fear, pain, incapacity, loneliness, regrets—things I want to tell the world but have hitherto lacked a voice for. I invite readers into my inner world without ever suggesting that I can tell them what to do or that my experience should also be theirs. My hope is simply that this little book may become a companion. My aim is for it to help people living with cancer, and those who care for them, to feel less alone, less afraid.

Despite my illness, I am remarkably privileged. I own the house I live in, and I have enough money to pay for my treatments and medications. Most importantly, I have the luxury of time. Time to make sense of my experiences, to inscribe them with a meaning that can be a force for good in my life. And time, also, to share them with others.

So, what does give me the right to speak? Is my cancer real even though I am so often well? Or am I a bit of a fraud? Have I suffered enough? These are complex questions. To represent my right to speak, I first must feel it.

The diagnosis was only the first step in a very long journey of feeling I had something to contribute. My cancer is a very rare one. It is incurable and can bring with it a seriously reduced life expectancy, progressive levels of pain and disability, and some disfigurement—sometimes severe. But it doesn’t necessarily do this all at once. For me, after the first 6 months during which my drugs did their job, life carried on much as usual. In terms of my right to speak, this is the first stumbling block—almost a form of impostor syndrome.

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Purchase Links for The Light in the Darkness

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About Jo St Leon

Jo St Leon is a musician and writer living in Hobart, Tasmania.

Receiving a cancer diagnosis in 2016 prompted her to transition from being a full-time musician who loved to write to being a full-time writer who loves to sometimes play the viola.

She shares her house with two very pampered felines. She loves reading, cooking, swimming, and yoga.

Website | Facebook | Goodreads | Amazon | LinkedIn

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Guest Post from Jo St Leon on “Getting Started”

Some days, I just can’t start.

I sit there, cup of tea at my right hand, staring at my blank screen. I look up at the ridiculous picture of the cow (dog?) balancing an apple on its head that lives above my fire, hoping for inspiration. None comes. My eyes return to the vast white expanse of my screen. I feel hopeless.

Of course, this only happens when I have a deadline: a review that needs to be in by lunchtime, an article whose moment will pass if I don’t get it in by the end of the day, a guest blog post, an assignment due…
Anything that yells at me, ‘This morning is your last chance, procrastinator!’

Tentatively, I write a sentence. It takes me five minutes to decide that it really won’t do. I delete it, and go back to staring at my blank screen. Ten minutes later, I write another. It goes the same way as the first. All the while the clock keeps ticking, marching its inexorable way toward my undoing. After an hour or so, it’s time for some serious self-talk.

‘Come on, Jo. Just write something. Anything. It doesn’t matter how bad – just get 500 words down on that page. Start now!’ I hear the incipient panic in the usually unflappable voice in my head, and decide that she means business. I start to write.

Time stops. The words flow out of me. I don’t pause for thought. Good, bad, indifferent – it doesn’t matter. The clock is still ticking, but I no longer hear it. There is only me and my screen, no longer blank. The tea grows cold. The cats prowl hungrily around me commenting, occasionally, that their breakfast time has been and gone. I ignore them and keep writing.

Finally, I come up for air. Look at the word count. Bang on, or thereabouts. I reread. It doesn’t sound too bad. Some rearranging—of words, sentences, paragraphs—and it’ll be good to go. I consult the clock: If I stretch the definition of lunchtime (or end of the day), I still have about 20 minutes left.

I heave a sigh of pure relief. Untangle my muscles. Feed the cats. Make more tea, and sit down for one final reread. A tweak here and there and I’m done.

I hit send.

I think the important thing in all of this is to give myself permission to write badly. A lifetime as an orchestral musician has given me the idea that all art is performance. So that first sentence has to be perfect. It’s life or death, my reputation depends on it. I’m slowly getting used to the idea that writing is different—I have the opportunity to correct mistakes, rework phrases, let my inner perfectionist loose—but only after I have some words on the page.