Sleeping with the Writer

It’s TMI Friday!

It was late, but in a good way.  You know that sweet spot right between early in the night when the household is still rumbling with dwindling activity and late in the night when all is quiet and still and beautiful and perfect and serene…  Wait, sorry.  I almost drifted into fantasy land.  It’s just that silence is not golden, my friends.  Gold is not precious enough to match silence.  It’s not even allowed to stand in line outside of the arena of what silence is.

The children were finally asleep.  This is hard when you have two early birds and two night owls and you find yourself morphed into a mixture of the two.  An ugly, angry bird that makes red bird seem like a friendly, hospitable, jolly kind of chap.

I was all snuggled down inside my cocoon of blankets.  I did not expect the marital bed to be a divide, by the way.  Of course, I’m not sure what I was expecting.  But, friends, sharing a blanket did not come up in the marriage counseling bit of life.  Okay,  I won’t get on my soapbox.  I’ll just stand dangerously close.  Like, please somebody write a book about marriage that’s real.  I’ll even throw in some titles to get you started.

Aim Your Farts at Your Side of the Room
The Day I Murdered the Proverbs Wife
I Have to Wash Somebody Else’s Underwear Now
You Put that Child in There, Now You Get it Out!

Actually, those might be chapter titles from a crazy book I write someday.

Anyway, let’s catch up.  It was dark and late and my husband turned off the lamp and rolled over to me.

“Oh, good.”  I thought to myself.  I had been a rough day and I really super duper needed sex.  I snuggled closer to him and awaited the onslaught of lips.

“You killed my favorite character.”  He said in a not so romantic tone, which totally killed the internal mood music I had going on.

Sleeping with the Writer

“What are you talking about?”  I propped myself up on my elbow to make sure it was my husband in bed with me.

“You killed the guy I like.”

“What guy?”  It took me a couple of minutes to catch up to him.  I’ve written another book or two since then, and I had to unravel the story back to the spot he was talking about.  “Oh.”  I didn’t have much I could say.  Spoilers are a tricky subject.

“And what’s with Charlotte?  I keep waiting for her to rain holy hell on the two guys.”

“Oh, holy hell is coming.”  I laughed.  Because it is.  “I know, it’s a long, slow arc.”  I thought for a few minutes.  I don’t know what the story is like for other people, and I forget sometimes that people aren’t in my head with me.  Sorry, my bad.  “I’ll try to make that scene better, though.”  I added after some thought.  “Maybe add what’s going on in her head so it makes sense.  Thanks for pointing it out.”

My husband is awesome at helping me with my books.  (He is awesome in general.)  Never once has he freaked out on me during this process of being a writer/artist.  I do try to be considerate in what I write online.  I mean, it’s not like I detail our positions in bed.  Writing this post might seem like too much for others.  (And it’s okay if it is.  I can respect your, er, position and maintain mine.)  I, thankfully, married a brave man.  One who is unafraid to be between the sheets with a writer.

And unafraid to accuse me of murder.

But that’s what you get when you marry a writer.  You marry a serial killer.  The nicest, kindest, most humane serial killer there is.  The writer.

Hope you have a great weekend.

Love Bravely


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