My hands hovered over the keyboard, waiting for the creativity gods to jolt through my fingers. Three months to deliver the first draft of my memoir, and for the first time in my career, I’d missed my target date. The second loomed like a foreboding shadow. Brutus, my Rottweiler, slept at my feet. He didn’t care about agents or editors or deadlines.
He barked, and the hair on his back popped up like quills on a porcupine. He ran to the window. I pushed my chair back and followed. “What’s going on, boy?”
Pressing my forehead against the cool glass, I slid my fingertips across the privacy film. If I had my way, there’d be a film covering every window in our house. But my husband Matthew refused to enable my deliberate isolation. I wasn’t afraid of people; I just preferred to avoid those not living within my four walls.