A few weeks ago, as you know, I went to Tucson for a writers’ workshop. I’d been invited because of an essay I’d submitted to a contest—an account of how I made peace with the English Bulldog who became mine after my divorce—and so, when we finalists were divided into groups, I was assigned to the nonfiction category. I could’ve opted for fiction instead, since that’s primarily what I write, but I decided to stay where I’d been put and submitted a manuscript of pieces I’d written about my divorce. If you’ve been reading me for a while, you’ve probably seen them; three of them originated as posts on my last blog. These pieces are intensely personal, and reveal a great deal about my marriage and how it ended. One of them, in particular, is so searing that I cannot imagine how I would ever publish it—my ex-husband would surely lose his mind. But I wasn’t submitting these pieces for publication, I was just sharing them with a group of fellow writers, getting feedback on the work.

The more times I read them, though, the more strongly I felt about the work I’d submitted—that it’s good. Some of my best, even. That other people would want to read it. Also, on some level, I was asking myself: are you seriously sharing these pieces for workshopping when you have zero intention of sending them out? I tried not to think too hard about that question. I focused on basking in the praise that flowed from my fellow writers.

After I got home from Arizona, I had a flurry of obligations and some catching up to do, and I didn’t do much writing, but then a week or so ago, reviewing the comments on my manuscript, I decided to return to Maggie Smith’s phenomenal memoir of divorce (and also of trying to be a writer and a mother at the same time), You Could Make This Place Beautiful. The first time I listened to that book, I’d churned out the three blog posts that became the bulk of my workshop submission; I remember walking the bike trail near my house, listening to the audio on my earbuds, pausing it every two minutes so I could dictate a note into my phone. I have never had a book affect me like that one did, every other sentence, seemingly, triggering some memory or association or revelation or idea. So I started it again, and it’s been just like last time. I have a list in my Notes app nearly eight screens long of ideas from my own marriage to write about that came up while I listened to Maggie’s book. I’ve written first drafts of five new pieces, and started several more. That familiar joyous obsession—the persistent itch to get back to work because there are so many more things to write about—has been with me ever since I started listening, nearly two weeks now. 

One night, I went out for a walk in the evening after dinner. I was listening to YCMTPB, and then I paused it to think about some of the things that were coming up for me. I’d made a few more notes in my phone of ideas sparked by her story, and suddenly, as I climbed the steps that connect my neighborhood to the park behind my house, the voice in my head spoke directly to me. You realize you’re writing a book, right? I’ve been writing a book my whole life. I was writing one book for 20+ years; then I finished it, and I started another, but what came to me the other night was, that’s not the book I’m writing now. I’m not writing another novel; I’m writing a memoir. Oh my God, I replied. And then…I can’t think about that now. I just need to keep writing.

Last Wednesday, I had a session with a medium. I’d wanted to meet with him while I was in Sedona, after Tucson, since that’s the sort of thing people like to do in Sedona, but he wasn’t available then so I booked a zoom session and did it from my bedroom. There were things I wanted to hear, and I did hear them, though I’m not convinced they came from where he said they did, but at one point, he asked me, “Are you writing a book?” I laughed, and I said yes, and he told me both of my parents were urging me to keep writing it. He said that the world needed my voice, and I should finish my book and get it out there because other people will benefit from my story. I thought about saying, “Yes, but do my parents understand that the fucking world will end if I write this story and my ex finds out about it? Do they know what that will mean for me?” No one in the afterlife, it seems, is concerned about it. 

Last night, I had a dream. My dreams have been off the hook for weeks, wild and ridiculous and vivid and numerous; several have included my ex, and various other men in my life. Last night, though, there was none of that. I dreamt I was crossing a kind of bridge. The details are hazy; I seemed to be on a hike, through a desert-looking landscape, and I wasn’t alone but I don’t remember who was with me. There was a weird formation in front of me, what looked like a huge white boulder wedged between two rocks, but when I stepped on it to cross, it collapsed, and I realized what had looked like a boulder was actually a gigantic hornets’ nest. It fell to the ground and split open; a wave of terror washed through me as I imagined the wasps about to swarm out and sting me, and I turned to run, but whoever I was with wasn’t worried about it. They waited, and so I hesitated, and a moment later the wasps did pour out in a buzzing cloud, but they didn’t swarm me. They didn’t even care about me; they made a lot of noise and then zoomed off in every direction, all around us, driven by whatever alien drives power wasps. Within seconds, they were gone.

The hornets’ nest was empty. I was fine. 

I may need you to remind me later.