Every friday night when I lived in California, I would meet up with my best friend at the cafe in Borders, and we would write. We almost never said anything during these visits. We would order coffee, prop our laptops up back to back, and the only noise at our table would be the clicking of keys.

Occasionally, the rythm of noise would be interupted by repeated pauses and backspacing. One of us would look up, and a random (usually bizarre) question would come up.

“If a zombie wanted your brains but only got hold of your hair, would it still try and eat it?”

It was then the job of the person to stop, ponder this serious matter deeply, and respond with a helpful answer. It never occured to us what we were doing might be weird.

When it came time for me to leave California, the first thing I did was unpack my laptop and start searching for a new writing buddy. By any chance, did you know that writing buddies are a rare and precious gift?

I asked everyone I had a nodding aquaintence with if they read, or wrote, or did anything creative. I met one artist, and…and…yeah.

My husband is very supportive of my writing, but his idea of a good day is getting through it without even having to read traffic signs. >.<

Two years I spent searching for a new writing buddy, and talking to my old one on the phone. (It’s not the same.) I joined online communities, I hunted for real ones, and I learned to write alone.

Writing is a lonely profession. Are you lucky enough to have a writing buddy?

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