A writing mate

 I met my writing mate at a Geneva Writers workshop. We discovered we worked for two different international agencies located across the street from each other.

Within a short time we were meeting regularly and reviewing each other's work. Some were lunches other's were "emergency" sessions where one of us would dash across the street. Her building was harder to access because of security, but a major conference center was next to her office as a backup.

There was the time we set in one of the UN cafeterias going over a plot problem in my novel. We needed to plan a bomb attack for the 1968 Paris riots. We had a how-to book, but we kept our voices down. After all, who would think too conventional middle-aged women in business dress would be terrorists?

We attended conferences together. We served on a conference committee together.

One time when we both had an encouraging rejection, we had a glass of champagne to celebrate the encouragement.

I cheered her on when she was in a bootcamp for writers, when she worked with various writers as mentor and when she went for a Ph.D. in writing in Australia. She cheered me on when I went for a creative writing master in Wales.

Over the decades we've gone from sharing every word we write to a sometimes "can you take a quick look at this?" exchange. If I have her blessing on something I'm unsure of, I feel better.

Like all internationals our lives began in different countries. When she retired, she and her husband moved to Austria. I visited her in Vienna twice. She came back to Geneva from time to time. Our internet connection was more like we were still in buildings facing each other.

Our private lives were on the periphery. Each of us had one daughter whom we talked about in passing. We vaguely mentioned problems, a house that wouldn't sell, a stepmom that was sinking into dementia, her dog, my dogs. No matter what was said, the other listened.

She recently lost her husband and has had medical problems. She will sell her home in Vienna and move back to Australia where her daughter lives.

Because she's my friend, because I always knew I could hop on a train for Vienna, I feel sad that will no longer be possible. 

As I write this on my laptop, I also know she is just on the other end of my computer screen. I am happy she is lucky enough to have a daughter as wonderful as mine whom she will be close to, but there will always be a nostalgia moment from when I could pick up the office phone and say "Meet me in five minutes."

I am a better writer because of her.