Friday, February 12, 2010
So, he said he wanted a disparagement clause in our agreement. That he wouldn't have me disparaging his new family. Not his wife. Not his baby. The title of this blog was mentioned.
I said I was a writer. That I write. That I hadn't disparaged him or his wife or his baby. That if my tongue was going to be cut out, the cutting would be done in court by a judge--not by him.
This blog is taking a hiatus.
In the meanwhile I plan to re-read Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott--the very first book I ever read about writing. Here's an excerpt:
A friend of mine recently fell for this non-Catholic priest who seemed very learned and spiritual and tender in the beginning, and then turned out to be a mean little Napoleonic shit; not to put too fine a point on it. She wondered if she could use him as a character.
Oh, I said, I insist.
"Do I have to make him tall, so he won't sue me?"
"No, no, no," I said. "Make him an uneducated writer, instead of a psychologist. Give him a past, two wives, and a number of kids he hasn't seen in years. Make him homely, make him a smoker, make him an atheist."
If you're a writer, you probably know the rest.
I wanted to tell the truth as it really happened. To hack a trail through my grief. And I will continue.
Until then--thank you all for reading. From the depths of my no longer broken heart, thank you.