I'd booked a room of my own for a week at a lodge on the outskirts of Cosby, Tennessee—a town too sleepy to care if you call it the middle of nowhere. Set just off a creek where horses grazed freely on miles of green meadow, the lodge I'd chosen had a wraparound deck, a library, and a proprietor named Janice. It was the natural inspiration one could want for starting a new creative endeavor. That's what I had decided this week would be for: I was going to plant myself here and begin a new memoir.
Two years out from a brutal breakup, I was ready to birth something new in my life, and this trip was a part of that birthing. Following the bends in the road, I let my heart fill with anticipation.
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