literary break-up letters. This fascinating article in The Atlantic features excerpts and background information from eight different writers penning their parting words to lovers, spouses, more-than-friends. Luminaries include Simone de Beauvoir (whose line I used in my post title), Virginia Woolf, Edith Wharton, Oscar Wilde, Mary Wollstonecraft, and more. They are wistful and so very real. Just the kind of real I needed at this time of cold, quiet beginnings. I hope your year is full of possibilities. And if there must be partings, let them be well-written.
I haven't wanted to talk about this. With anyone. But I think I probably need to. That like Georgina, I need to use my words to break the curse. I think that like Sam, I need to believe in my cure. So I'm going to talk about it here, and maybe you can help. Since pandemic type things got real in my neck of the woods, I haven't been able to read. I haven't been able to reread . This has (and I am not exaggerating) never happened to me before in my life. I know it happens frequently to most everyone. And I have certainly always been a mood reader. It's not in any way uncommon for me to drift from book to book, from shelf to shelf in my library, until I land upon the right thing. But that drifting tends to occur over the course of a few hours. Not ever does it occur over the course of a few days or, God forbid, weeks. I feel like I'm losing my mind. And, yes, I am fully aware of where this problem likely rates on the triviality scale in the current scheme of