Where I’ve Been

by Cooper Young

“I’ve pretty much given up on the blog.”

“Really? Why?”

“Well, I was never really that good at it, and with all…this…going on, it’s even harder. I’m too tired and too…you know…”

“So why not write about…this?”

“It hardly seems appropriate. Seems unfair to you to air dirty laundry like that.”

“You’re a writer. I’m giving you material. You may as well use it.”

Maybe this will be inappropriate; I don’t know. He’s right, though. I’ve always been a confessional writer, so this will come out one way or another. If you’re uncomfortable knowing this much, pretend you don’t.

I’ve been trying to think up a clever way to narrate this and, quite frankly, I’m at a loss. Some things just can’t be dressed up. Here, then it is: I disappeared a couple of months back because my husband decided that—as he has difficulty feeling empathy for other humans, just doesn’t think he’s actually capable of love, and finds family life incompatible with his image as an artist—he’s leaving. At the time of this announcement I was eight months pregnant with our second daughter. His parents own our current residence, so “I’m leaving” actually translates to “Get out”.

I apologize for my absence, but I was a bit depressed.

Now, at the time, I couldn’t very well do as asked due to a) my physical condition and b) my financial condition (making $300 a month working for his dad and being, oh, 25k in debt). I’m supposed to be out within a year.

At least, that was how things stood the last time they were discussed. They haven’t been in a little while, at least not since the birth of the child who will here be known as “Smallest” fifteen days ago. She was born during finals week, so he and I haven’t had much time to talk. Point being, though, hell if I know what’s going on anymore.

I’m not really sure I ever did.

For my part, though, I’ve been doing the only thing I really can right now: writing. I currently have two new short stories which are looking for homes, and for the past week and a half have been working on a new sci-fi novella, The Clockwork Maker, which is basically my answer to the question “What if my marital problems also involved a robot serial killer?”. For some reason, the latter is proving surprisingly easy to write.

Slowly, I’ve been coming back to the world. Anyone who follows me on Twitter may have noticed my recent semi-reappearance there. I’ve realized I have to keep moving, have to keep talking, have to keep writing—I’ll end up lost inside myself if I don’t. I can’t do that. There are people who depend on me and, as scary as it is to think, my life is never again going to be as “easy” as it is now. Within the next year it’s going to get a lot more hectic, stressful, and depressing. I’m never going to have as much time to write as I currently do, and I would be an idiot to waste this chance.