unicorn-a-licious asked:

I'm sending you a million zillion hugs after stalking your blog. You're an amazing writer and I adore all your stories!

Oh my heavens, aren’t you the sweetest?  I love for people to stalk my blog—I mean, that’s why I put it out there—and for you to say such nice things…well, it just made my night!

Anonymous asked:

I LOVE your Klaine fics...you are such a talented writer! Just wanted to let you know that you brighten our lives with your writing!!!

Holy cow!  What a nice thing to say.  I’m blushing.  OK, so I’ve been sitting on a new fic because I am completely stuck on the ending, but you’ve motivated me to start hammering on it again.  Thanks so much!

Awkward and Cool

A funny thing happens now when I go to professional meetings and see dozens and dozens of people from all over the country who are long-time acquaintances.  They avoid me.  To be clear, they didn’t used to avoid me, but now that I’m a widow, talking to me makes people feel awkward and perhaps a little sad. You can tell a part of them is thinking they are so glad it was my spouse and not their own.  And also, they really don’t know what to say.  So I see them seeing me and trying really hard not to make eye contact.  

I get it.  I really do.  And it’s okay.  

So, like tonight in San Francisco, I went out on my own to avoid imposing my sad, widow self on my uncomfortable acquaintances.  I don’t mind being on my own.  I often prefer it.  Tonight I met a man who is the photography editor for a major news outlet.  He bought me a beer, and we talked for about an hour.  At one point he said to me, “Wow, you are so interesting,” and I thought, “Isn’t that the best compliment ever?”  So maybe being left to my own devices isn’t so bad after all.  

The Fifteenth Anniversary (Not Reached)

I have the best friend.  We’ll call her S.  The other day we were driving around in Michael’s car, which had been parked in the garage for about a month.  At some point S. took over the driving, and we were chatting, and I was looking out the window. Then, I just put my hand on her thigh.  But not her thigh but his thigh, because that’s what we would do—for almost fifteen years—he would drive and I would rest my hand on his thigh.  I almost instantly realized my mistake—this habit, now wrong—and S. just knew why without me saying anything.  And we both burst into tears.  

And aren’t I lucky to have someone who helps me carry my grief?