I’m at that point in writing when I want to cry or laugh at inopportune moments—while sitting calmly at my desk, while crossing the street, on line at the deli buying a yogurt. My notes to myself in my calendar involve much profanity and can’t be quoted here. I’m at that point where I turn off all the lights and turn on a song and whirl around to it in the dark and then rush to the keyboard to set down a paragraph, pretending that didn’t just happen but it did because I just told you. At the point where I really need to dye my roots but I can’t care about that yet. At the point where I’ve alienated quite a few friends. At the point where I question everything. At the point where a letter in the mailbox sends me into a rage until I forget about it five minutes later. At the point where my clothes just can’t match. At the point where I don’t even watch reality TV anymore. At the point of talking to myself on the sidewalk. At the point where I can’t wash the saucepan I just used for dinner last night. At the high point of trying to write the best words possible, and everything else has fallen to the wayside.
I hope I still have a husband after this.