Several months ago I handed my husband a stack of Poets & Writers magazines and told him to get rid of them.
"Recycle them, take them to the library, leave them in the English Department. I don't care, just get rid of them"
I had declared--rather childishly, I admit--that I was done with writing. I was no good at it, I felt, and the local writing community did not support my writing efforts or the literary reading series I host. I felt lost and ridiculous and tired of trying. I was done.
Several weeks ago I woke with a start and tears filled my eyes. I needed to write again. I couldn't contain the words roiling in my brain and belly and heart.
With the help of a professional writing coach and editor I began again. I've written almost every day for four weeks. I've submitted one creative non-fiction piece and have several others earmarked for either editing for future submission or inclusion in a book.
Today I found that stack of magazines hidden under a shelf. I showed them to my husband.
"I couldn't do it. I would just have been wrong."
This gesture was more loving than any bouquet of flowers or fancy piece of jewelry. I think I'll keep those magazines indefinitely now. I'll look at them and remember that someone special loves me. I will look at them and remember that I am a writer.