It must be hard to be married to a writer.
We keep odd hours, staying up late at night to take advantage of the finally quiet household and then often getting up early to snag some more of that time. Sometimes we get vicious around our writing time, finally snapping at culprits when they haven’t listened to our kinder warnings to remove themselves from our presence.
We have intense conversations with imaginary characters while we accidentally burn supper, or forget the load of laundry, or step over the kitchen floor that’s collecting stains. Sometimes we know it’s Monday, but more often than not we are struggling to remember that it’s noon. The braver ones of us will admit that we aren’t quite sure what year it is, but it’s cold, so it must be winter.
We are furiously passionate about our love for words. And yes, I mean furiously. There is a huge difference between being furiously passionate and timidly passionate. I have been both. Sometimes this love is rational in the form of a lots of bookcases and piles of books. Sometimes it’s irrational in the form of hot headed arguments over punctuation. (Sometimes we are alone in the room when we have an argument.)
We sit in a room with other human beings and stare off into space as we imagine time lines and create mountains and think of names for characters and wonder if two of our characters will ever stop fighting. (To be fair, we do this alone, too.)
We need wait time when answering questions from real people. There’s a passage we go through when we travel between the world we live in and the world we live in in our heads. Sometimes we have to answer a character’s question, refocus, and then answer our spouse’s question.
Sometimes we make love to other people in our heads. While we are writing, of course. But don’t worry, a warm, tender human hand trumps a book boyfriend every time.
We ask for your opinion on our books. Sometimes we cry when you tell us the truth. Sometimes we call you names.
Yes, it must be hard to be in a relationship with a writer. And for those who dare, we are thankful for your presence and support. We appreciate your affection, understanding, and loyalty.
And in case you are wondering, you are number one. No idea is as awesome as you are. No book can do what you do. No character can take your place.
You are the warmth of the sun and the tickle of the breeze. You are the content sigh at the end of the day and the giggle under the covers. You are, and we are glad of it.
Thank you to all the significant others of writers.