I finished work yesterday evening, after an unusually busy week, with only one thought in my mind: go home, and write. Write, write, write.
I left the office, met up with The Angry Chef, and we went home together, chatting away. By the time we got home, I realised I had spent most of my week’s free time writing, and hadn’t really spent much time with my husband. So I’m not ashamed to admit that I didn’t write a single syllable yesterday. Not even on here.
People who love writing can develop some quirky habits. I could easily write into the wee hours of the morning while The Angry Chef sleeps peacefully in the next room. Others prefer typing with a side of coffee in the morning. Or in some cases, four in the morning. Anyone who has ever read “A Moveable Feast” understands that being married to Hemingway was no walk in the park, even in a beautiful city like Paris. And speaking of which, although they weren’t married, I’m pretty sure JP Sartre gave Simone a run for her money.
When you started reading this, you probably thought this post had a point – I’ll make it now, I promise.
This is to say to all the people who are married or otherwise involved with people who write as a passion: you have my deep appreciation and admiration. For all the times you bravely resisted the urge to roll your eyes when your partner interrupted a conversation to jot down an idea he or she were sure to forget later. For pretending you didn’t wake up when your partner came to bed at three in the morning or got up an four in the morning. For not minding the constant clickety-clack of the keys on the days when your partner is too inspired to talk. For all those days when you were ready to go out, and your partner wasn’t ready because finishing a sentence, a paragraph or a page took precedent.
I think any writer would be worse for wear if they didn’t have loving people who understand their quirky habits.
Thanks for reading, and have a great weekend!