Here’s me and my shrink the other day:
Shrink: “So how much longer do you think you have on your book?”
Me: “You mean if I actually focussed?”
Shrink: “Yes. If you focus.”
Me: “Probably two months.”
Shrink: “Well. I think you should focus on it. I’d read it when it comes out.”
Me: “Yeah, some days I start to work on it, but I stop. Abruptly.”
Shrink: “Because you get distracted?”
Me: “No. Because it’s too painful.”
My book isn’t a memoir. It’s fiction, a novel. This aside, life events naturally influence and infuse your Art. And furthermore, as I’ve 
ranted about time and time again – I like words that hurt. My favorite pages to read leave me feeling physically assaulted and somehow, not offended at the same time.
What can I say, each to their own.
I’m hoping that the first tastes of springtime will snap me out of my most recent stint of ick and back into pages. Since getting back to town, it’s all been a bit bitter-sweet. I didn’t really realize how much I hate my first husband until I took the initial year apart to really view the situation objectively from the couch of a clinical psychologist and say, “Wow. He really was an asshole, and he treated me like garbage.“
I’m tired of being gloomy, and needless to say a record-long winter didn’t help. I think I’ll snap out of it this spring. And finish this bloody book. After all, there are so many more to get onto.