To live as a writer, one has to put their life on a certain axis demarcating the outside world from what exists internally. One has to create space, have room to breathe, set aside time to focus, and basically be given leave to confidently close the door against distractions and know that life can go on without their involvement for a spell. I’ve been incredibly lucky with the latitude to compartmentalize my life for the past few years, and had become accustom to an easy rhythm conducive to writing. My life seemed even, measured, predictable, but then BOOM, upheaval came like a wrecking ball and threw everything into turmoil.
If you’ve ever loved a dog, you’ll know immediately what I’m talking about. My family had a tag-team of two for the past ten years. Everybody knew the program around this house; we had a time and place for every gesture of the day and a telepathic understanding of who needed what from whom, as well as when. A person gets used to this kind of existence. It provides stability, certainty, constancy; it helps define one’s place in the world alongside one’s players.
Three months ago, the unforeseen happened. Humane practice gave no other choice than to put one of our dogs to sleep. It created a void so vacuous my soul hurt, and every time I looked at our remaining dog, all I could see was who was missing. After ten grief-ridden days, I told my husband he could either lock me up somewhere, or get me a puppy. I’d justified this by saying our remaining dog needed a friend. Immediately, we procured a puppy, and although everything wasn’t exactly the same, the hole in my heart started to heal. Three months later, our remaining dog had to be put to sleep. We didn’t know how sick she’d been until her malady was discovered as inoperable. It was an out-of-the-blue, make your decision now kind of a thing, and I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t see much until the shock of trauma wore off and there was I again, with one dog and compounded grief.
Yesterday, we got another puppy. I’d decided this house had been a two dog family for too long, and any variation of the theme would leave us lacking. The eleven week old puppy is now upstairs napping beside its six month old playmate, and I’ve repaired to this computer to do something that feels like a long-awaited exhale.
There’s something to be said for being conscious of the variables that bring peace of mind. I don’t think a writer can write without possessing their individual arrangement. I’m hoping I can take my finger out of the dyke and flow along easy now; now that peace of mind has entered wagging two tails.

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