Twenty years ago, I went through a divorce. It was the worst pain I’ve ever known. I made a promise: I’d figure out how I helped create that hell, heal the part of me responsible, and write a book for the millions of men who would one day follow the same trail. My archives are littered with the corpses of half-finished drafts, starved out by immaturity and unhealed wounds.

But three months ago, the book came into focus.

Crystal clear.

I came to Prague to finish it.

I found a modest apartment across the river, in the neighborhood where the locals live.

No lamps, just a single overhead light that felt like an interrogation room…. so, I bought candles.

At night, my little IKEA desk became a séance table.

The veil grew thin.

The muse arrived regularly.

Some days, I wrote at café tables under old street lamps with a glass of the local juice in hand.

But most of it?

It happened right there at that little table.

I learned the rhythm of the crosswalks.

Became a regular at the local market, buying bread, meat, cheese, chocolate and wine to subsist on during my writing sessions.

Discovered that Tram 9 is my best friend.

Found the laundromat.….and wrote, constantly, for days on end.

The first draft is complete.