If you come here often, you know that I am about to finish my novel Houses of Cards. I will, in fact, be writing the afterward this morning. But I had to share with all of you the amazing event that occurred yesterday afternoon. You should probably read this post and this post as background on the situation regarding writing and my husband. Done?
Okay, so things have been somewhat rocky in terms of balancing my writing and paying attention to my husband. Well he’s been pretty good about leaving me alone this week since I’ve been so close to finishing and last night I tell him “I finished the final confrontation. I just have one more scene to write tomorrow and then I’m through.”
Hubby: Wow, that’s incredible! I’m really proud of you. (This was sweet and wonderful, but is not the miraculous part).
Now I have another post somewhere around here mentioning that over the last few weeks my hubby has also decided to give writing a try. This has been, by turns, amusing and irritating to me as we are not remotely well matched as crit partners. He’s written in fits and spurts and is up to about 4k, I think. He has a flare for fantasy, as it turns out–it’s the contemporary stuff he has difficulty with. Anyway, so we get launched into a discussion about the writing process and how it felt to finish and whatnot, and he says “I can understand how it can be addictive.”
Excuse me, what?
Hubby: I haven’t gotten to that point myself yet, since I have the attention span of a gnat, but I can see how it sucks you in.
Me: [Does double take.] Who are you and what have you done with my husband?
There followed a discussion about how writing a book has the same component of desperate longing for “what happens next!” as reading a good book. Except you have to write it yourself, so it takes longer.
The miraculous part is that I think he is going to finally stop giving me grief about this. So there is definitely a silver lining to the non-writer trying to write. He finally gets it!
Now that’s romantic.