bout five years ago, I came up with an idea for a series of personal essays about relationships called "Crying in Restaurants." I was amused by the image of me, sitting at a table draped with fine linen, dripping tears into the mashed potatoes--an image that had been less than amusing to the men in my life for some time. I started the piece but scrapped it when it became too sad and weepy. (Imagine.) Four years later, during a story pitch meeting at Nerve, I resurrected the idea, possibly because I didn't have any other story pitches that day. My editor loved it. I'm glad. Without Nerve, I don't think I ever would have written the series, which has its final installment today. And without the series, I wouldn't have this six-part flipbook of my romantic life for the past 20 years. And I wouldn't have a personal essay series coming to an end at the beginning of the year, which somehow feels just right.