Very few writers really know what they are doing until they’ve done it. Nor do they go about their business feeling dewy and thrilled. They do not type a few stiff warm-up sentences and then find themselves bounding along like huskies across the snow. . . . We all often feel like we are pulling teeth, even those writers whose prose ends up being the most natural and fluid.

Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird

Yesterday, I promised myself I’d begin a public writing habit. I’d post on this blog daily whether or not inspiration jolted me. I was inspired to write on Wednesday. The same is not true today,

And so I stare at the screen, fidgeting. I pet the cat, refill my glass with red wine, and listen as the other cat tears it up in one of the litter boxes.

A terrifying thought lodged in my head: I don’t have many friends.

There are scads of good dudes who would refute this statement. They’d probably invoke memories of our days in grade school at Our Lady of Fatima, summers lifeguarding and boozy Budweiser nights in Sea Isle City, or semesters together at the fraternity house at Penn State. And we were thick as thieves during those eras. Then, we grew up.

All my buddies married, had children, and bailed to the suburbs. Many still hang out with each other. My life is different, though.

I live in the city and am without offspring. I do not consistently initiate contact and suggest we hang out. Instead, I either work or spend time with my girlfriend, who I live with. I am not unhappy. I love my life.

There’s a nagging voice, though. He says, “You need to make friends. Go out. Be social. Get a fucking life, bro.”