One is the loneliest number, but it's nice to write alone.
About the time that my marriage dissolved, there was a deluge of other things. My nest emptied, and the birds flew far and wide. I moved out of the nest and let Mr. Ex and the Little Missus have it (since she'd already slept in my bed.) Three of my best friends moved away. My agent gave up on my book. Then last summer my mom got cancer. This September one of my dogs and one of my cats died. I realized that in the great infinity of possible bad things, this isn't so much, really. And I feel weak and indulgent when I find myself struggling. So then I buck up for awhile until I decide to have a bottle of wine for dinner. Which has struck me as really stupid recently. So this past week I went to bed extra early on the nights when the man who loves me wasn't around. And lo! And behold! I awoke yesterday morning with an idea for an essay, and I fired up my computer instead of crawling to my espresso maker. Imagine that. An idea that I didn't have to pay someone to wrench out of me.