So, that novel I was working on? Yeah. We broke up last month.
We were together for two years. Two years is a long time. But when it’s not working, it’s not working.
No, no. It was good. A good break-up. Mutual.
It told me that I had problems, and that I need to work on them. And it’s right about that. But it also recognized that it had its own issues to work out. And to do that, we both need space. Time apart.
So I’m moving on. You know. Doing stuff. Keeping busy. Reading.
And I’m still writing. Seeing other stories, carving more notches on the literary bedpost.
But I’m good. I’m good. Really good, in fact. Like a weight has been lifted. And the best part is that I’ll get better because of it. I mean, the experience, the pain, the time lost. The failure. But also because of what comes after. Letting go. Moving on to the next one.
And then the next one.