It was during a lull in my writing life, six months of no publications and constant moping, when she said, “Look, I don’t want to hear about this writing stuff anymore until you can make a living at it, O.K.? I just don’t.” She wanted substance, a child, maybe a ring. Yet she still accompanied me to every reading at every dive bar, independent bookstore and trendy Brooklyn art space. And when I delayed a club’s burlesque night with my 18-page opus, there she was, telling the audience to shut their traps, one nattering hipster at a time.

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