I've always written - mostly to myself - seemingly talking myself down from a ledge during troubled times. I guess had I literally talked to myself I would be in a padded room with that white jacket - you know the one where the arms wrap around you so you can hug yourself.
Instead, I channeled my garden variety insanity into the laptop. The friend of which I speak, my nearest and dearest for about twenty-five years, has been gently nudging me (ok, she's been a nagging, harassing beast) about getting my thoughts and insights out to the general population.
My life... no different from so many others. A woman, 40, a divorce/remarriage statistic, own my piece of the suburban American Dream Pie, keeping my feet wet in my chosen career once a week which had otherwise been derailed by family obligations, pick up his dry cleaning, clean the kitchen, promise in vain to get to this month's PTA meeting. The usual.
But doesn't a funny thing always happen on the way to the supermarket?