For many years, our show, which was about marriage, had very good writers. It was just the two of us; I was the wife, and he was the husband, and we said marvelous things to each other. Of course we charmed the nation; of course I couldn’t step out of the house without being accosted by fans. We were hopeful and funny, whimsical and passionate. Daring, too: we went off and did this; we went off and did that. (So much time has passed that I can’t remember what specifically we said—but we revealed our souls, I know we did.) Then, to everyone’s surprise, as well as ours, a merciless edge crept into our dialogue. (I regret…You always…I hate it when…You’re not the person I…I’m in…Then why don’t you just…) Hearing—and saying--those lines day after day took its toll; I dreaded going to work and always felt ill. My costar, for his part, seemed to age in a flash. Our writers must have been going through something at the time, for eventually they quit. I was glad for a minute, but our new writers aren’t even trying. What we would both give for new material! Reading the scripts, my eyes glaze. (What are we having for… What time are we going... Didn’t we already see…What were their…?) I haven’t been recognized or stopped on the street in years—I don’t know about him; we never see each other off-set anymore. I’m amazed the show is still on the air. It seems increasingly likely that no one is watching.