TIL DEATH

It's hard to be married to a writer. Or maybe I should say it's hard to be married to me.

Today was an A+ day for effort. In the morning, I entered yesterday's revisions into the computer, then yes, if you've been reading my entries the past two weeks, you have already guessed. I went to a coffee shop and revised some more. This is the fun part for me--polishing, adding more sensory details, fleshing out my characters. I felt good about what had happened on the pages today. I was ready for some positive feedback. And I didn't have to look past the recliner in the family room.

I asked my husband, "Do you mind reading fifty pages tonight?"

"Sure," Jerry answered. "Just let me get a load of clothes in the washing machine." (Yes, my husband does laundry. I raised him right.)

When he was ready, I handed him the pages. My office is next to the family room so I worked while I listened for any comments, such as, "This is great!"

It didn't happen.

When he chuckled, I hollered, "What's funny?"

"Oh, the part where he says his legs ache."

I really hadn't planned for that part to be humorous.

A few minutes later, he chuckled, again.

"What's funny?"

"Am I going to have to tell you every time something is funny?"

"Yes."

He sighed.

I left him alone.

When he was finished, he returned the pages to me. "There's a typo on page 101."

"Thanks, but what did you think?"

"I liked it."

"You liked it? That's poison to my ears. I'd rather you hate it."

"I loved it," he said.

"You can't say that now that you said you liked it."

As I said earlier, it's hard to be married to me. I think I'll send my mother some pages tomorrow.