A Rock To Tie A String Around

I have finished the first draft of the second book, officially. Now the hard part comes where I have to agonize over rewriting all the parts that I know for a fact suck, and then tweak all the bits that now don’t fit the newly rewritten pages, and then in a month or so, I get to do it all again, and again and again…until I’m confident to start the actual editing process.

Writing is an exercise in insanity. But this blog isn’t really about my insanity; it’s about my poor husband. For starters, you should understand that I’m married to the world’s sweetest man, most understanding, kindest and patient individual that I’ve ever met. Good thing too, cause I give him a lot to be patient about.

With The Tree Museum, I fed him chapters as soon as I wrote them. I would literally save the word document and then email him a copy, and wait breathlessly while he read it, trying to judge his reaction by the look on his face. I had to physically restrain myself from sitting right across from him as he read and blurting out questions like “Do you get it? Isn’t the part with the chicken nuggets and the coffee the best thing ever? Huh, huh?”

not the actual us, we use stand-in for all photo ops....

There’s a scene in Funny Farm (yes, I’m old) where Chevy Chase takes his wife out for their anniversary and for her present he gives her the first draft of his novel and then makes her read it, right there, in front of him, while he watches.

Despite having seen this movie about 200 times, I did the same thing to my dear husband. I knew better, but it was like a tick, I couldn’t stop myself. To his credit, he never once did what I’m sure he had the compulsion to do more than once – which was virtually toss my half filled first draft back in my inbox and tell me to shove it.

Unfortunately, this was only the tip of the iceberg with my literary spousal abuse. I also talked about my book all the time. I forced The Husband to listen to me run alternate scenarios, agonize over whether Nate or Rosemary would say this or do that…..it was constant. Then I would rewrite something and present it to him like it was the best thing ever….ever.

I made The Tree Museum the topic of dinners, lunches, I woke him up at night just to see if he thought The Signmakers would be more likely to go with biodiesel or solar powered cars. I’m surprised he didn’t permanently remove my laptop.

Then, when the book finally came out, I plagued him with my near constant insecurities: was that mean republican blogger right? Am I a neurotic liberal pinko commie spouting half-baked propaganda? Don’t answer that one – that one was rhetorical.

I was determined not to make the same mistakes again with this book. I wouldn’t let him read a word of it until this last week. Even then, I hesitated, qualifying it as a piece of half-baked suck. Saint that he is, he still wanted to read it.

I have to admit, I still plagued him with plot questions, character surveys, and every once in awhile he was woken up to questions like “Does the FBI investigate ships or is it the Coast Guard?” He would groggily answer “Hmmm…snort…mmmm”

Which honestly didn’t help at all.

I think you have to be a strong spouse to be married to a writer. I think you have to be like Mr. Fredrickson in Up and turn down your mental hearing aid whenever your spouse is in danger of driving you crazy. Writers are a crazy, vain little bunch, I’m just glad I attracted a saintly husband.

Thanks honey.