There’s a chapter of my life during my late 20s and early 30s that I refer to as “the Hollywood years.” I was living with my ex, an exacting man who badgered me constantly, in an unfurnished bungalow tucked away in the Hollywood Hills, high above the teeming, seedy parts of the city. He’d written a bestselling book and went off on the lecture circuit for a year; meanwhile, my own writing career had begun to take flight, and I had magazine assignments that stretched as far into the future as I could see. I spent many nights alone in that spooky house, which the actor Rudolph Valentino had supposedly bought for his mistress, listening to it sigh and creak and groan. I frequently stayed up all night to meet my deadlines, haunting around our near-empty house, fueled by mug after mug of strong black tea. My diet involved a lot of toaster waffles and frozen chicken sausages. As my relationship disintegrated and my work piled up, I drank Diet Coke and smoked cigarettes, often for breakfast. …