“You’re my favorite writer.”

This is what E, my other half, just said to me. He then said: “I can’t wait to read all the books you’ll write. And I get to read them first.” He’s not one for empty compliments. And yes it’s true: everything I write, he reads it first.

Being a writer has been the most grueling, degrading, agonizing, depressing part of my life. Rewarding too, yes, but the bad is always what you (I) dwell on. And yet the bad all falls away when E says such things to me. He helps me remember why I’m doing it. He makes it all better. He can make it seem like I’m floating on Pulitzers in a sea of chocolate cake.

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