Writing is a wonderful career choice in many ways, but in other ways it can hurt the ones you love.
Not because you have to choose to be solitary for long stretches. I love taking a break for coffee dates or a movie, and the rest of the time they’re probably relieved I’m out of their hair.
Not because you compare your husband to your book boyfriend, because hey, who do you think helps with inspiration.
It’s because you constantly rabbit on to them about details from the book, such as, I don’t know, the time you spent in Hawaii. You might ask your husband what he remembers the air feeling like, what the people were like, what you did, what you ate.
And then one day your husband wakes up, rolls over, and says sadly: “I think… I think I was just dreaming. And now I have this keen awareness that I’m not in Hawaii.”
Me too, babe. Me too.