When I was twenty-something, I asked my father, “When did you start feeling like a grownup?” His response: “Never.
The bottom line was that I was in an abusive relationship.
I think first of the children. What the hell am I supposed to tell them? Then I think about money, the house, all those things no widow will tell you ever crossed her mind.
Cuz I can count on one hand the men who’ve loved me, not in the Biblical sense—I don’t have enough digits for that—but who have truly loved me.
I am forever an advocate of books, both the reading of them and the writing. There is something sacred to me in that community. Because writing--and reading--is a solitary business. And it’s good to know I’m not alone.
Just write. That's my only tip. And read. I guess that's two.
Wine and a straitjacket. That pretty much sums it up.
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