This weekend is emotional flashback weekend. With the New York Times’ reprinting of my essay “The Chicken’s in the Oven, My Husband’s Out the Door,” my life is rolling back to that Sunday morning in the fall of 2004 when I was newly divorced and a very personal part of my life was arriving on doorsteps in blue bags.
For the longest time, I wanted to be a writer. Decades. “A writer is a person who writes,” I heard, and so I did. But I didn’t call myself a writer until I started to get published, and even then, I always felt like I was exaggerating. Boasting. Maybe until my second book, Writing Is My Drink, came out. Then, I figured I must be a writer because not only did I write but I’d written a book about writing.